


The Night Sam Winchester Leaves for Stanford

by deimosandphobos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awesome Bobby Singer, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester and Sam Winchester Fight, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, POV Bobby Singer, POV Dean Winchester, POV John Winchester, Protective Bobby Singer, Running Away, Stanford University, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-17 22:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14198721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deimosandphobos/pseuds/deimosandphobos
Summary: An account of what happens between Dean and John the night that Sam sneaks off to Stanford. No slash or anything, just some violent descriptions of an altercation. Please comment and review! It's my first work, so I'd love some feedback.





	1. Sam leaves

**Author's Note:**

> My plan is to extend this fanfic a couple more chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate any feedback! Let me know what you like and don't like and I will try and work on it.

Dean paced the limited confines of their most recent motel room rental — the Huggy Bear Motel he believed was the name of it. The name was laughably juxtaposed to the dim lighting, stained carpets and skeevy occupants that seemed to loiter around the halls and back corners, slinking away to their rooms whenever Dean passed by to do God knows what. But Dean had bigger things to worry about then some sketchy patrons, because tonight, he knew he was in deep shit.

Yesterday Dean had been witness to a shouting match between Sam and his father. Now, this was nothing out of the ordinary, it seemed to only take minutes for the two of them to begin to butt heads. But this was the fight to end all fights. It had started in the Impala when Sam again decided that it was a good time to bring up his long-awaited departure to Stanford. Dean groaned internally at Sam’s choice of timing… _rookie mistake_ , he had thought; doing this in the small enclosure of the Impala was bad news since there would be nowhere they could cool off. The fight started off following its familiar pattern, his father would tell Sam that he’s not going, Sam would get riled up and scream about his father’s control issues and the tension would grow until it seemed to be palpable. But this fight didn’t just peter off into the normal anxious silence, because after all the yelling had been exchanged, Sam had muttered under his breath that he was leaving this week. All conversation came to a halt as John glared at his youngest through the rearview mirror. Dean could see the anger flashing across his father’s dark eyes as he spit out the unforgivable words “If you leave, don’t come back.”

The quick look of hurt that flashed across Sam’s face was quickly replaced by a simmering anger that resided in his clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows. The rest of the trip was completed in utter silence until their arrival at the Huggy Bear Motel where Sam jumped out of the car, slamming the door the moment the engine had been cut. When John and Dean were the only ones left in the car, John let out a deep sigh and let Dean know that he was going to give them some space for the night and stay with Bobby, who happened to be further uptown. Dean gave the customary “Yes, sir.” and went to go rent a double while the Impala slowly backed out, taking John away.

Sam seemed…different that night.

Dean couldn’t tempt him with burgers from the greasy joint down the road or even cajole him into leaving the room. When Dean suggested that they rent a movie later, Sam just continued to lay in his bed, back towards the door and head down like he was thinking. After a while, Dean gave up on trying to talk with him and hit the lights for bed. In the darkness of their room, staring up at the ceiling, Dean whispered what he thought must have been implicitly obvious. “You know he didn’t mean that, right?” Several minutes later, the response returned with “Yes, he did.”, before the two of them fell asleep. Or at least, Dean thought that they both fell asleep.

The morning light slanted through a broken section of the blinds, highlighting a particularly nasty looking stain on the brown carpeting. Dean immediately noticed that Sam’s bed was empty, but assumed that he was out grabbing some breakfast— he hadn’t had dinner last night after all. But as the day progressed, there was still no sign of Sam. By 1 p.m. Dean had tried Sam’s phone 5 times, all to be sent straight to voicemail. Panic rising in his chest, Dean went to go talk to the lady at the office that he rented the room from yesterday. Her long, acrylic nails clacked rhythmically against the desk as she told him that some twenty-year-old kid had come in early this morning to ask about bus schedules. “Do you know which one that he took?” Dean asked impatiently. “No sweetie” her voice creaked out “ ‘Bout ten buses have came round since then and I didn’t see him get on none of ‘em. Here’s a schedule if it helps.” Her leathery arms extended him a brightly lit pamphlet with a bus on the front underneath “Oh the Places You’ll Go!” imprinted in bright yellow lettering. A sinking feeling threatened to cave in Dean’s chest on the slow walk back to his room.

So now, he was in deep shit. He had no idea how to track down his brother, no inkling of what route he would’ve taken to get out to Stanford and no car to go look for him. Not only sick with worry about Sam’s wellbeing, Dean was afraid for his own. Dean had seen his father become furious over him losing Sam for just a couple hours, much less for losing him permanently on a country-wide bus trip to California. Dean remembered one time that his father was supposed to be gone for a week on a hunting trip, so Dean had loosened the reigns to let Sam spend the night at a friend’s house. His father had returned early, tired from the long drive, scratched to hell from a fight with some monster or other and desperate to relax awhile. The door had slammed open with Dean openly drinking a beer on the couch while watching TV. John’s brow darkened at the sight of an 18-year-old Dean sipping a beer, but he didn’t mention it as he barked out, “Where is Sam?” Dean, entirely caught off guard, stammered out that he was staying the night at a friend’s house. “Excuse me?” John’s voice came out cold as ice. “And who gave him permission to do that?” He took a step towards Dean. “Who, in the right god-damned mind, would allow his 16-year-old brother to go wander around this godforsaken town with a stranger?” He advanced on Dean, grabbing his collar and throwing him off the couch. A buzzed Dean was unable to keep his balance and cracked his head against the floor. A slight moan escaped his lips as his father asked with disgust, “Are you even sober enough to go pick him up?” Knowing the consequences would be much more severe if he somehow managed to drunkenly wreck the beloved Impala, Dean stammered out “No, sir.” White lights burst into his vision as his father landed a stinging kick to his ribs. “I gave you one fucking job!” John roared. “Watch your brother. Now here I come home to find you drunk on the couch like some pathetic housewife, while your brother could be in danger!” Another kick to the ribs. “Get your ass in the car, we’re going to fix your fuckup.” John practically threw Dean out the door and shoved him into the passenger seat. Dean tried to focus on remembering the route that he had taken earlier to drop Sam off, but it was really difficult with his head swimming from booze and the throb he had earned from his tumble to the floor. Every time he would mess up the directions, his father would begin to fume some more, building up anger that would boil up in an occasional hit to the face.

Eventually, the Impala pulled up to a cute little house in the suburbs, where John parked the car next to a couple bikes laying forgotten in the driveway. Dean craned his eyes to see a middle-aged woman in a robe answer the door that his father was now knocking at. Through John’s demeanor and gestures, Dean could only assume that he’d worked out some story about a family emergency and needing Sam to come home right away. Sam stormed out of the house, infuriated that his father didn’t trust him enough to stay the night with a friend, but pulled short when he saw Dean through the car window. Man, he was a sight. He was hunched over as if he was having trouble breathing, blood was trickling down the back of his neck from a matted red spot in his hair and his lip was split open in two places. All anger displaced, Sam stuttered out “What happened?” as John marched angrily back to the car. “Well, I came home to find you missing and your brother lying around drunk after a fight at a bar he had snuck into.” His tone did not leave any room for challenge and Dean weakly nodded his head in agreement.

Later in their motel room, Sam had helped Dean clean up and asked him the question that had been bugging him all night. “Dean… did you really get into a bar fight?” His voice came out soft and understanding, he knew that his father had been physical with Dean before, even if Dean tried to pass it off as if it had been someone else. “Sure, Sammy” Dean replied quietly. “Now help me get to bed.” Avoiding the purpling bruises around Dean’s stomach, Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s side and laid him to bed, hurt that Dean didn’t trust him enough to share this with him.

That was what happened when Dean had lost Sam for just one evening. Pacing around in his motel room, he began to work himself into a full-blown frenzy as he considered his father’s reaction when he got home. Maybe Dean could leave? Just like Sam. He could hop on a bus, catch it the nearest town and wait for his dad to calm down. No, that wouldn’t work. Knowing John, it would just be better to suck it up and get it over with. Anyway, a part of him felt like he deserved anything coming to him…after all, he should have been keeping a closer eye on him last night. He should have known that Sam was going to try to leave and tried to stop him. Resigning himself to his fate, Dean sat down dejectedly in a chair waiting for the fateful moment that the door handle would start to turn.

Eleven fateful hours later, the door swung open to his father carrying a sack full of burgers from the restaurant Dean had wanted to go to last night. “Where’s Sam?” John asked carefully, setting the burgers down on the dresser. “I brought him a peace offering.” He gave a side-smile as he sat down on the bed and started to take off his shoes….actually, struggled to take off his shoes. _Oh shit._ Catching a glare off the light from his father’s glazed over eyes, Dean could only assume that he’d been drinking in order to try and mellow out for this confrontation with Sam. _This is not going to go over well._

Dean tried to speak, but his voice hitched in his throat to just come out as a kind of sharp sound. His father’s eyes snapped over to him, reading his apprehensive behavior with curiosity. “What’s your problem?” John demanded. After a deep breath, Dean mustered up enough courage to say “I can’t find him. I think he actually left this time…” his voice getting quieter as he looked down at the carpet. They sat in silence for a minute. Dean could feel the rage building up in the room like a thunderstorm, the few seconds of peace before the storm hit with all the intensity it could muster. John had stopped trying to untie his shoes and just sat there, eyes downwards, the anger he felt being expressed in his tensed muscles and quickened breathing. John’s voice came out quiet and controlled. “Now. Do not lie to me. You will regret if you do. What happened to Sam?” Dean exhaled all the details of the past evening in one anxious breath. He sat there, body tensed, to see his father’s reaction to what had to be the largest screw up of his life.

“This is just fucking like you Dean.” John’s quiet voice was now beginning to rise. “You have one thing. One thing that I ask you to do, and that is to watch over Sam. I leave for one night, and your brother gets a ride to go parading all over the god-damned country, while you’re asleep with your thumb up your ass.” John’s eyes flash dangerously at Dean. “This is the last, fucking time, that you will be a disappointment.” With that he gets up and grabs Dean roughly by the arm, throwing him into the motel wall. Dean could vaguely hear shouts of surprise from the occupants of the room next door. Looking into his father’s eyes, Dean knew that he was in trouble. Bloodshot from anger and glazed over from beer, John’s normally calculated behavior was about to turn into a full on shit-show. Dean was so busy staring at those eyes that he didn’t even notice the fist coming towards him until he was slouched over, gasping for air and staring at the floor. A knee to the face snapped his head upright and he could feel the blood beginning to pour down his throat from a bloody nose. Dazed, he tried to put his hands up to shove John off, accidentally catching his thumb on one of John's sleaves and tearing it, but this just made John angrier. An angry John Winchester maintains a special kind of strength, one fueled by sheer, concentrated rage. Trying to fight John like this is like trying to fight an angry bear. “Don’t you dare” John hissed at him, “Try to get out of this. This…” Smack. “Is your…” Grab. “Fucking fault.” Throw to the ground.

Dean looks up in surprise as his dad sits on top of him like this is a schoolyard fight. His stomach aches from all the pressure being set upon his bruising ribcage. His head snaps back forth left to right as John continues to lay into him, his vision is beginning to become fuzzy from the swelling on his face and pressure that’s thundering through his head. All he can think is _It’s never been this bad before…_ and lets fear radiate through his body in kind of a nonsensical roar. Not sure if he can handle anymore, Dean whispers “Dad…please.” This seems to snap a little bit of pity into John as he stares down at his son with a mixture of anger and regret. He shoves off the floor, yells at Dean to get cleaned up and immediately crashes down on the nearest bed. Dean lays there half conscious and waits until he can hear the loud snore of his dad before managing to wriggle the phone out of his pocket. Through several belabored attempts, Dean manages to search through his contacts until he gets to the name he was looking for. Bobby answers on the second ring. “Do you know what time it is, kid?” “Bobby.” Dean croaks out. “Shit!” Bobby’s voice starts to take on a panicky tone. “Are you boys okay? What happened?” Dean knew that his father would be livid with him for calling Bobby, but he was worried that he had a concussion and he needed some help. Normally, he’d ask Sam but… “Bobby, I need you to come pick me up. We’re at the Huggy Bear Motel, Unit 3, Apt. 7.” “Dean, what the hell is happening?” Bobby interjected. Dean replied, “I need you to not ask about it, but please, just please come pick me up.” The other end of the line grew silent.

“I’ll be right there.” And the line clicked off.


	2. John's Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recounting his idea of what happened the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take this chapter to go into John's perspective. Not a huge John fan, but the guy isn’t a monster, just a stressed-out guy with a temper. With that acknowledgment, I’m aiming to make my writing believable and not too overdramatized. Please comment and let me know how I'm doing!

John Winchester was not having a good morning.

His head immediately started hurting as he was slowly drawn out of the comforting grip of sleep by a muffled pounding sound. As he came more fully to his senses, the waves of throbbing radiating dully throughout his brain began to align with what he now recognized as the sound of someone knocking. His eyes crept open and settled on boxy alarm clock on the night table by his bed, displaying glaring red numbers that told him it was 10:48 AM.

“It’s past 10 o’clock buddy.” A scratchy women’s voice was softly audible from the other side of the door. “You promised me you’d be out by 10. I don’t need no more trouble from you.”

Still more than a little disoriented, John threw off the flimsy blanket tangled up across his legs and rose to go answer the door. His conscience did a quick summersault as he glimpsed some fresh red stains in the corner of the room adding to the mosaic of discolorations printed across the carpet from years of use and abuse. Beside the stains laid a dully painted picture of a bouquet of flowers that had been knocked from the wall and a small table lamp that he remembered had been previously resting by the television. In the wall below where the painting had been, there was a body sized indentation in the cheap paneling with tiny cracks in the paint radiating outward from the point of impact. Guilt started to seep across his brain, covering everything like a blanket, as the memories of last night began to creep back. _Oh, God. What a mess._ With that thought, he cracked the door open slightly to reveal a middle-aged woman with bleach blonde hair and long, hot pink nails looking at him with a mixture of frustration and disgust. Her impatient demeanor made John think that she may have been knocking awhile.

“You’re lucky I didn’t throw your ass out a’ here last night.” She glared at his disheveled appearance and wincing eyes and scoffed. She knew the signs of a hangover when she saw one. “You ‘bout woke up the whole damn motel with your yellin’ and shoutin’ last night. I woke up to 4 missed phone calls, complaining about the crazy man throwing shit in Apt. 7 and a kid bleedin’ outside on the steps. You’re lucky the folks ‘round here like their privacy, or they woulda called the cops on ya’. Now, I need you outta this room so I can rent it to some decent folk.”

“Okay, okay…”John mumbled as he slowly closed the door, avoiding eye contact with the angry woman. His felt exhausted as he sat down heavily on the bed, resting his throbbing head between his hands as he tried to remember everything that had happened last night. God, his head hurt. John had spent all of yesterday at Bobby’s house, drinking beer and sharing his insights on a case that Bobby was working somewhere uptown. Bobby had welcomed him without question when he had shown up at his doorstep asking if he could stay the night. Hunters were usually like that, everyone kind of tried to have each other’s backs in a world that seemed to be designed to shove a knife in their own. But Bobby was more than that, he was almost family to the Winchesters. John had relied on him throughout the years as a safe haven for his boys when he needed to go hunt a case on his own ¬ some hunts would’ve been too much for them to handle when they were young. Bobby had actually grown pretty close to his boys throughout the years, so when John had shown up at his house alone, it was only natural for Bobby to immediately ask where Sam and Dean were. John rattled off part of the truth…that they were staying at a place in town and he was giving them some space for the night. At this, Bobby had raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything as he opened the door for John to come into the house. John didn’t need to tell Bobby about his falling out with Sam – after all, that was family business. In fact, Bobby and he frequently butted heads about his parenting style, so he tried to avoid bringing up his boys at all. He was glad to have a person like Bobby Singer in the Winchester corner, but he didn’t need to be told how to raise his kids by a guy that had never had any of his own.

He had dragged out his visit to Bobbys for the majority of the day; he was already dreading what he could only assume was going to be a massive blowout with Sam when he got back. He knew he had been a little harsh with him in the Impala the other day, but he needed to get it through Sam’s thick, stubborn skull that he couldn’t go to Stanford. Point blank and period. With all that John had seen, there was no way that he was going to let his youngest go running off to some isolated school at the edge of the country to go get himself killed by a monster before John even knew what was happening. As the sun began to set, he finally said his goodbyes to Bobby and started to make his way back into town. God, he was not looking forward to this. He loved the kid, but everything Sam did had to be so damn aggravating. John swore that half the time they were fighting it was just because Sam wanted to disagree with him on something, like he got enjoyment out of playing the devil’s advocate.

A couple streets out from the motel, he had caught sight of a dumpy, little bar and had decided to go there to mellow out before his altercation with Sam. What was supposed to be a few drinks kept turning into just a couple more as he continued putting off going back to the motel. It was only when he got up to go the restroom and had to catch himself on the chair that he realized how drunk he really was. After leaving the bar his memory of the night had become less clear, blending into a series of muddled emotions and third person snapshots where he saw himself sitting in the drive-through of a small burger place and pulling his Impala into the gravel driveway of the Huggy Bear motel, his bright headlights casting a warm glow over a couple lowlife drug dealers hanging out on the side of the building, their eyes shooting daggers at the audacity of the man disrupting their business. Someone had yelled something at him as he had struggled to get out of his car, slamming the door a little too hard, and found his way to the room Dean had rented. He wasn’t exactly sure how the conversation between him and Dean had gone down or when he had realized that Sam had left for Stanford, but he remembered being pissed off enough to start a fight with Dean.

His eyes drifted over to the blood stains on the carpet as memories of their fight started to swim into his memory. _Did I really do that?_ The ice-cold feeling of guilt began to slowly clench like a vice around his heart. It wasn’t that he necessarily felt bad for attacking Dean; John had made it glaringly clear that keeping an eye on Sam was Dean’s number one priority. Growing up, John had been forced to remind Dean of that with a little heavy-handed parenting more than he would like to admit. No, that wasn’t the part that he felt guilty about. They were hunters after all– a hard people. And Dean was a hunter through and through. In their line of work, John needed absolute obedience from his sons, especially his eldest, in order to ensure their safety both at home and out on the job. Dean had always seemed to understand the necessity of consequences in response to disobedience, he had never once complained or tried to fight back when John was forced to discipline him. No, the part of the previous night that was really bothering John, the part that was springing forth a bubbling pool of guilt that threatened to envelop his chest, was that this was the first time John felt as though he had lost control. I mean….Christ. He could barely even remember their fight. He knew that he had thrown some punches, but looking at the disarray of the room and blood stains on the floor, John had the sneaking suspicion that he may have inflicted more damage than he had intended. Normally when he and Dean got into it, John was able to keep his temper in check enough to gauge when Dean had had enough. John vaguely remembered throwing Dean up against the wall, but he had no recollection of following him to the ground, or really doing anything other than throwing a punch or two. He didn’t even remember how he had ended up in bed.

An exhausted sigh threatened to double over his already slouched frame as he slowly drew his hands down his face, trying to remember more details of the previous night to no avail. When he stared down at the hands now in his lap, he heaved out a surprised guttural sound as he realized that his knuckles were stained red with the remnants of someone’s blood. _Not someone’s blood._ He mentally corrected himself. _Dean’s blood…Fuck._ Another wave of guilt washed over his body, and coupled with a splitting headache, began to make him feel nauseous. Unable to contain himself any longer, John softly called out, “Dean?” but the question was absorbed by silence and trailed off into nothingness. John heaved himself up off the bed and went to go look in the only other place that Dean could possibly be in the room, the bathroom. He held his breath as he knocked lightly on the closed door and again called out, “Dean?” His voice sounded shaky and foreign. No reply. Mentally preparing himself, John took a breath and pushed open the door to the bathroom, half expecting to see his eldest crumpled up on the floor lying in a puddle of blood that he had caused. He couldn’t help but exhale a sigh of relief as the door swung open to reveal an empty, white room containing no sign of his son.

He entered the room and started to wash the blood off the back of his hands, purposely casting his eyes downwards to avoid looking at himself in the mirror – he wasn’t ready for that yet. The water swirled down the drain with a pink tint as it washed away to some new and foreign place where there would undoubtedly be less violence. John wished he could go with it. Head hanging down and eyes closed, he tightly gripped the sides of the sink with both hands, trying to reconcile the pounding throb ringing through his skull and the guilt eating away at his stomach into a manageable ache. After a couple minutes, he slowly lifted his eyes to the mirror to examine the man pathetically hunched over the sink, clinging to it as if it were his last lifeline. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and his skin looked sallow and worn. His white t-shirt was speckled with blood like it had been flung there purposefully by a paintbrush and some red paint. Worse, there was a substantial rip on the right sleeve of his shirt like someone had made the effort to yank him off really hard. His chest began to tighten at the realization that Dean must have tried to fight him off last night. Dean, the perfect soldier, who had never once raised a hand in self-defense, had finally felt the need to protect himself. John must have really taken it too far.

He needed to find Dean.

With a little more determination in his step, John changed his clothes, straightened up the room and started to pack up his belongings. It was only when everything was set by the door, ready to be loaded into the Impala that John realized that the cheap flip phone he had picked up a while back was not in the customary pocket of his jacket. After a thorough search of the tiny rental room, John was able to locate it far underneath Dean’s bed, kicked to the corner. A quick glance at the home page of his phone showed 10 missed calls from Bobby Singer. John’s breath caught in his throat as a memory of last night began to slowly swim back into his consciousness. He had been lying in bed –he remembered that much at least– when he had heard someone pounding and yelling through the door. It was a man’s voice and it had sounded angry….as in really angry. He remembered thinking in his semi-conscious state, that whoever it was, sounded kind of like Bobby. But at the time he didn’t understand why someone was pounding on the door so early in the god damn morning or why on earth they were so angry, so had flipped over in bed, buried his head deep underneath a pillow and fallen back asleep.

John closed his eyes and collapsed back down onto the bed as he realized the shit storm that he was about to encounter. Bobby had directed some clipped comments John’s way before in response to his rather “hands-on” approach to discipline with his eldest. Bobby had made it clear that he didn’t appreciate this method of parenting; he had even thrown a couple threats John’s way after Dean had spent some time at his house and he had seen the remnants of a particularly heated fight between them a few nights previous. Although he made his opinions clear, Bobby had remained such a good family friend through all these years because he had had the good sense never to make a too big of a deal out of it before. But now, John knew that Bobby wasn’t going to let this one go lightly. As if to verify his suspicions, John pressed play on one of the numerous voicemails that Bobby had left for him. “…of all the idjit, dumbass things you have ever done John, this has to be the worst.” Bobby’s voice came roaring out of the phone. “If you ever take one step towards your boys like this again, I will skin you alive. You hear me? I just can’t believe….” John clicked off the phone.

Exiting the motel room, John could see splatters of blood left on the pavement from where Dean must have waited for Bobby last night. He returned the keys to the lady at the desk, ignored the dirty looks that he was receiving from the renters loitering outside their rooms and threw his bags into the back of the Impala. His head throbbing and his chest tightened from guilt and anxiety, he slowly backed out the Impala from the gravel driveway of the Huggy Bear Motel and started down the road to Bobby’s house.


	3. Bobby's Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will cover Bobby's POV after he gets the call from Dean and goes to pick him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be the last chapter before I switch back to Dean's perspective. 
> 
> And, as always, please comment! I'd love to hear your thoughts on how I'm doing.

Bobby Singer's heart hammered in his chest as his beat-up 96' Chevy Silverado hummed down the quiet country road. Not knowing what to expect – Dean's call hadn't exactly been the most explanatory – Bobby had loaded up a couple guns, salt, medical supplies and an assortment of ritual herbs into the back of his best truck before peeling out for town. He had a vague idea where the Huggy Bear motel was, he was pretty sure it was the dingy, rust-colored building on the east side of town featured commonly on the local late night news as a hotspot for drug busts and stabbings. _John should've known better_ , thrummed through Bobby's skull as a prickle of anger passed fleetingly through his chest. That stubborn idjit had spent the whole day at Bobby's house, lingering to avoid something he refused to talk about while stranding his boys with no car at one of the skeeviest places in town. Bobby's foot pressed down on a little harder on the gas as the sound of Dean's strained and crackled voice coming through the receiver sang through his memory.

Twenty minutes ago Bobby had been immersed in researching the case he had been working. Papers were strewn across his kitchen table in nonsensical patterns that only made sense to him, only to be interrupted by the occasional piece of yellowing notebook paper scrawled with tiny, illegible handwriting containing some insights to link clues. The shrill noise of the landline had abruptly cut through the air, giving him a bit of a jump. He hated to admit it, but he had been a bit on edge ever since taking up this case a couple days ago – cases involving kids left him with this constant prickly feeling vibrating through the back of his neck. His aversion to these kind of cases wasn't exactly one of fear… more of discomfort. Bobby had been in this business a long time, and when someone went missing for as long as these two young sisters had been ( _13 days now?_ ), there was rarely a happy ending to be found. Although the girls' stepdad was the main suspect being detained by the police, something had felt off – almost supernatural – about the conversation between dispatchers that Bobby had been eavesdropping on through his police scanner the night of the disappearance. He had decided to give it his due diligence and investigate it further, if only for the slightest hope of rescuing those poor girls.

The sound of his heavy boots echoed loudly through his quiet hallway as he clomped over to the home-phone, seeing on the receiver that the call was from none other than Dean Winchester. His good-natured teasing immediately turned into concern as Dean croaked out his name from the other end of the receiver. Bobby had known Dean long enough to know that if he was calling, especially if he was calling when John and Sam were around as backup, that he was likely really in trouble. The meek voice that crept out of the phone into Bobby's ear was not only scared but also noticeably….quiet. Like whatever had scared the hell of him was still in the room. Catching on quickly, Bobby had tried to keep the conversation low and brief to avoid disturbing whatever it was Dean was hiding from.

And now he was flying down the road, ( _well, as fast as you can fly in a 96' Silverado with a misaligned front-wheel suspension and skipping transmission_ ) doing 60 mph in a 30 mph zone as the engine of his Silverado roared triumphantly with the most power it had been given in a decade. If Bobby could put a time on it, he would guess that he was about 15 minutes out from the motel that Dean had been talking about. His mind began reeling through possibilities of what could've happened from the time John had left several hours ago to now as the yellowing headlights skimmed past the dusty, flat landscape that was defined by this area of the Midwest.

John hadn't said much when he had arrived at his house last night. He hadn't bothered to brief Bobby on what he was doing in town, on whether he was working a case or where either of his boys were. All he said is that he had to "give them space" when Bobby had asked about them. Bobby had thought it wise not to push the point. He and John had been friends a long time, and while he could be a majorly stubborn pain-in-the-ass, John Winchester had always been a good man at heart and a loyal friend at that. The only times that he and Bobby had even really been in danger of losing their friendship was when Bobby had called him out on some of his rougher parenting techniques, something that he tried to avoid doing but sometimes couldn't be helped.

As John had slowly endowed Bobby with more and more trust to watch the boys for longer periods of time when they were younger, Bobby's trust in John's parenting skills had conversely declined. Bobby had always thought that John was a little too militant with his children – _I mean, they were kids for God sake_ – but it wasn't until they really started spending prolonged periods of time with him that Bobby realized that John's discipline reached a little further than vocal admonishment. The first time that he had even noticed anything amiss was when he had caught Dean and Sam in the middle of a play-wrestling match. Sam, being the little instigator that most boys are at the age of 10, had sprinted into Bobby's living room where Dean had been talking to Bobby a couple minutes before and tackled Dean to the ground with a full-force body slam to the ribs. Bobby would've thought that someone had fractured a bone with the sound that came out of Dean's mouth. Bobby ran out of the kitchen and was met with the sight of Dean doubled over in pain, his breathing coming out in hitched gasps while Sam looked on apologetically from his hiding place behind the couch. Helping Dean with an icepack that night in his dimly lit kitchen was the first time Bobby had ever noticed the bruising on his torso, blossoming varying shades of purple and green with the sickly color of a dying flower, that he would come to associate with John's misguided sense of discipline.

A haggard sigh escaped Bobby's throat at the recollection of that unpleasant memory, disrupting the whirring of the engine as he made his way steadily closer to the Huggy Bear Motel. Throughout the years – including that first night – Bobby had tried to reason with John with every tactic he could think of (including a lot of anger and threatening words), none of which seemed to get through John's thick skull. Dean's injuries continued to be all too common of an occurrence to have come from the hunting expeditions and schoolyard fights that he often attributed them to. But when John had made it clear that their continuing friendship was contingent on Bobby letting up about his parenting, Bobby had decided that the wisest decision was to try and back off a little bit – after all, losing contact with John also meant losing contact with Sam and Dean. Bobby knew that he would be more valuable to those boys as a friend of the family and a place of respite then he would be as a dusty memory of a past acquaintance that once had the gall to stand up to their father. Remembering back to his own childhood and the everyday violence that seemed to permeate his home like the plague, Bobby would've given anything for a person, a place even, that would've given him the occasional break from the slow, anxious trudge up to the front door of his home when he saw his father's work truck parked in the driveway.

And John was not like his father. Bobby had known John since before the boys were born – Mary's family and his went way back. He remembered the cavalier, dark-haired stranger with the easy laugh that Mary had first introduced him to all those years back. But Mary's murder had been hard on John, as he had been forced to cope with her death while being simultaneously thrust into the lifestyle as a hunter and a single dad with two young boys. John attempted to do the best that he could, adopting an assertive position to parenting that aligned more closely with a military general than a father. Considering John in this manner had helped Bobby understand John's self-justification of the abuse of his eldest; he didn't consider it an act of anger, only one of corporeal punishment brought on by disobedience. Bobby was able to take a little comfort away from this thought as he had never known John to make a move on Dean that showed lack of self-restraint. If Bobby had thought that John was capable of inflicting serious damage on either one of his boys, friendship be damned, he would've taken those kids so fast John wouldn't have even had time to blink.

By now Bobby was in a bad mood. His annoyance at John's carelessness of leaving Sam and Dean stranded today was now mixing with the more solid, sharp anger he felt spreading throughout his chest every time his mind let him wander to the darker aspects of John and Dean's relationship. _Almost there, almost there_ …radiated through his head like a mantra as the beginnings of sparse town fixtures began to emerge slowly into the view of his headlights. In an attempt to ignore the pit of anxiety and rage swelling inside his chest like a balloon, Bobby clicked on the radio as a distraction, letting some slightly twangy, country song ebb softly throughout the car. Five minutes later as he was pulling up to the building he thought was the one Dean had been describing, the Garth Brooks song that he had been listening to had ended and the channel was now playing a segment on weather and local news. As he slowly pulled his truck into the gravel parking lot surrounding the motel, his hands flew to turn up the radio volume as he heard a male voice boom out that there had been some new developments on the case of the two missing girls – the case that Bobby had been working on the past week.

The Silverado's dim lights scanned past a variety of rather interesting figures that seemed to prefer their place in the dark as Bobby circled the dingy establishment searching for Unit 3 Apt. 7. According to the newscaster, the police had been able to obtain a confession from the primary suspect, Allen Warner– the girl's stepfather, after a particularly heated cross-examination earlier that evening. A string of curses screamed through Bobby's head as he continued to circle the building. Monsters, Bobby could deal with… or at least understand. They had rules, they had patterns, they had behaviors that people like him could track. People, on the other hand, were a God-damned nightmare. They were selfish, violent creatures that were capable of any and every atrocity under the blazing sun. He'd learned that lesson early on.

Rounding a corner, gravel crunching under the heavy weight of his oversized vehicle, the truck began to slowly creep forward to a person sitting in what looked like an uncomfortable position on the sidewalk in front of a chipping wooden door. In fact, it looked like they were more laying in front of it. Bobby's engine roared, kicking up gravel, as he recognized the figure as Dean and skidded into the closest space before jumping out of the car. Bobby's heart caught in his throat as he caught sight of John's oldest. Dean was slumped over against the side of the door, his head resting against the door frame and facing down, pouring a steady stream of blood that was flowing from his nose and pooling at his feet. His skin was sickly pale underneath the fluorescent lighting and he was obviously shaking from the cold, with only a thin, white t-shirt on to combat the freezing March weather. His back rose up and down in an uneven rhythm that suggested that he was having trouble breathing. Bobby spotted his left hand guarding a spot beneath his ribs that had begun to blossom crimson stains through his shirt, contrasting sharply to the stark white it was imprinted on. Later, Bobby wouldn't remember calling out Dean's name, but he must have shouted something, because by the time he was running up to Dean several doors had inched open, displaying glowing eyes of curious neighbors.

Dean looked up slowly at the sound of Bobby approaching, revealing a bruised and misshapen face that had a cut trickling down a steady stream of blood from above his left eye. Trying to blink through the blood that collected on the left side of his face, Dean gave Bobby a half-hearted side smile that almost seemed….embarrassed? Relieved? Bobby couldn't tell. "What the hell happened Dean?'' His voice came out gruffer than he had anticipated. The pit in his stomach seemed to sink further toward the ground. "Where's Sam? Where's your dad? They alright?" His questions came out in a jumble. Dean's voice came out quiet and strained, "Sam left. He caught a bus this morning while I was sleeping. Dad's fine…" His eyes fell back down to the ground where the blood from his nose had collected into a pattern of discoloration onto the sidewalk. "Look, can we go?" The question hung quietly in the air as Bobby pieced together what had happened to Dean.

After that, everything kind of collected into a violent jumble in Bobby's mind. He remembered slamming against the motel door Dean had locked in foresight, shouting threats and obscenities that started to collect a somber crowd of occupants outside the dingy motel. He remembered fuming towards his car, his mind and body one incoherent mess of throbbing anger, to go fetch his shotgun when a couple nameless neighbors had slammed him against his car and told him to calm down. Most of all, he remembered the look of pain and embarrassment written all over Dean's face, the sharp gasp of burning pain that he gave when Bobby helped him to his feet and the heavy lean to his left side as he limped to the car. Dean's head leaned against the door, eyes closed as the Silverado screeched out of the parking lot back towards Bobby's house as he left what must've been the 5th voicemail on John's phone, screaming that this was the worst thing he had ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I'll try to put out a new chapter soon.


	4. The Suffocation of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's POV. The car ride home after Bobby picks up Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and feedback. Struggling to determine the direction I want to take with the rest of the story and would love some ideas from you guys.

The silence had to be the worst part.

As the truck sputtered down the still, dirt road, the silence swelling in the car was only disturbed by the ragged sound of Dean’s breathing. It consumed the car, pushing against the doors and windows with an unspoken vibration of anger threatening to be broken by a sharp word at any moment. Dean could read from the shaking in Bobby’s hands and the tick in his neck and jaw that he was infuriated. He knew that conversation during this car ride was inevitable ─ he had known that when he had made the decision to pick up the phone a hour ago. But the fact was, he didn’t want to talk about it. He never wanted to talk about it. If he and Bobby could simply make it through this night and never mention it again, he would be perfectly content. Relieving a sigh that quickly hitched into a sharp gasp from a stabbing pain in his side, Dean closed his eyes and let his head rest against the window.  _Fuck, his ribs really hurt._ He unconsciously clenched and unclenched his fingers a couple times as they began to prickle painfully with the sensation of feeling. He had sat out in the cold, night air for a solid hour, gasping for breath and attempting to staunch the steady flow of blood pouring from his nose like an eternal fountain before he had dimly heard Bobby pulling into the gravel parking lot.

And now he was here, in a truck that was both old and comfortable, a style that he and Sam had learned to associate with Bobby from a young age. Dean’s mind and head began to drift downwards into the dull throb of exhaustion as the blaring heating system started to leech some of the chill out of his bones. He had begun to feel the unconscious arms of sleep slip around him when a gruff hand clasped his shoulder and began to shake him in a way that sent painful waves of nausea radiating throughout his body. “You can’t fall asleep Dean.” came out soft but imperative from the driver’s seat of the car. “Can’t tell if you have a concussion or not.” The tense presence of silence returned for several minutes before Dean was startled by the loud thump of Bobby slamming his hands down on the wheel in anger. “Goddamn it John!”  _Here we go._  Dean’s insides felt as if they were shrinking in on themselves, but Bobby continued anyway. “Of all the jackass things I’ve seen your father do throughout the years, this has got to be the worst. I’m not putting up with it anymore. If that selfish, violent, son of a bitch ever so much as lifts a finger towards you again, he’s going to have the front end of my shotgun to deal with.” Bobby’s angry voice tapered off for a moment and returned more quietly with a hint of something that Dean couldn’t quite identify. Regret? Pity maybe? Whatever it was, it made the blood rush up to his cheeks in a flush of embarrassment. “Has it…ever been this way before?” The question hung suspended in the air, lingering like a bad odor. “No Bobby. Leave it be.” came as a quiet response from the passenger seat.

“No Dean, I’m not going to leave it be. I’ve been watching over you your entire goddamn life, watching on quietly as you’ve sported every bruise and cut that you didn’t fucking deserve. It’s bad enough you and Sam have to be carted around the country, seeing things that would scare the shit out of a grown adult, but this? This beats it. I’m not going to stand for this shit. And you shouldn’t either. Your entire life, I have never heard you say one bad thing about your father, not even now after he beat the absolute living hell out of you. I mean…” Bobby’s voice faltered for a moment. “What’s the deal Dean? Why aren’t you angry? Why do you let him treat you like shit?”

At this point, Dean felt something snap inside his chest. It was as if all the fear, embarrassment and anger that he had experienced within the last several hours had been rolled into a tight ball within his chest that had now exploded into a firework of rage. “What the fuck do you want from me Bobby?” Bobby’s eyes grew a little bit larger as he recognized the venom in Dean’s voice. “Honestly. What the fuck do you want me to do? Should I break down in tears, maybe we can have a little heart-to-heart about how daddy’s mistreated us?”  _Youch. That was going to sting._ But for some reason he couldn’t stop. “Or should I be angry? How about I punch my 45-year-old father right in the face then tell him to go to hell. I’ll just walk right on out, leaving him to deal with all the shit he has to deal with on a regular basis, and just stroll out on the only family I have ever known.” He was on a roll. “Maybe with that nifty GED I got, I’ll just leave and go be something useful to society. How about a banker? Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll just leave this whole fucked up life behind me and go be a banker. Is that what you want Bobby? Because honestly. I swear to whatever god is out there right now that I will react in any way you damn well please as long as we can stop having this conversation.” He realized that his chest was heaving and he was out of breath.

The truck lapsed into silence again as Bobby turned back to face the road. Studying the side of his face, Dean had never thought he had seen Bobby look so old. The usual good humor present in his eyes seemed to have been replaced by tiredness ─ a worn-down, dog-eared, last-leg sort of tiredness that Dean had never seen there before. The explosion of anger still roiling in his chest began to intermingle with a little bit of guilt as he realized he was yelling at the one person in his life who was only trying to help him. Ever since that night in Bobby’s kitchen all those years ago, Dean knew that Bobby knew. When little Sam had asked Dean why they hadn’t been back to Bobby’s so long after that visit, Dean had simply replied that it was because Bobby and Dad had gotten into an argument without telling Sam what it was about. When John had started letting them hang around Bobby’s again, Bobby had tried to broach the subject with Dean a couple times throughout the years, but Dean always shut him down telling him it was from a hunt or school or whatever. Although Dean knew Bobby was smart enough to not believe any of that, Bobby had always had the decency to not push him on it. Instead, he’d just offer to bandage him up and maybe a beer (if he was lucky). Dean knew that Bobby brought up the origin of his injuries to John sometimes ─ he knew because he had done some snooping on a muted yelling match through a closed door at Bobby’s before, only to be embarrassed to figure out what they were arguing about. On those occasions, John would storm out of Bobby’s house, red-faced and fuming, to tell Sam and Dean to grab their stuff and throw it in the car, they were leaving.

Honestly, Dean hated that Bobby knew. While, yes, it was nice to have someone around in a situation like this, Dean would’ve preferred it to be something kept between him and his father. He had always felt guilty that he had to burden Bobby with something that was his problem. He felt guilty that he had to put a strain on Bobby’s relationship with his family. He felt guilty that he was inadvertently taking away one of his father’s only friends, one of the only people in John’s life that let him feel not like a dad or hunter, but just a person. Just John. And now, he was sitting here feeling guilty about yelling about one of the only people he gave a damn about. “Look, Bobby.” he heard himself say quietly “It’s just not something that I want to talk about. It’s not a big deal, I promise. I really messed up today and he just over-reacted a bit. Can you please just let this one go?” Dean wasn’t sure that Bobby had heard him as the silence returned for another couple minutes. Finally, Bobby responded. “I can’t Dean. I can’t just let him think that it’s okay to treat you like this. I’m sorry.” He turned towards Dean, that ever-present tiredness lining his face. “I know that you hate this. And I know that you don’t want to talk about it. And that’s okay. How about we hole up at my place for a couple days, give you a chance to recover and to let everything simmer down before I talk to John? I’ll call your dad and let him know that it’s in his best interest to buzz off for a couple days so it can just be you and me. Does that sound fair?”

Dean felt himself nodding as a sense of relief washed through him. While it wasn’t his ideal solution, Dean figured that it was probably going to be the best deal he was going to get out of Bobby. This way, Bobby and his father would have a couple days to calm down and maybe prevent the big macho showdown that Dean was so desperately trying to avoid. Also, he really didn’t want to deal with his dad at the moment. Normally when he and his dad got into it, they would just go on pretending like nothing had ever happened. John’s attacks were usually careful, calculated even, to prevent lasting damage and ( _maybe just as importantly_ ) to be hidden from prying eyes, including those of his kid brother. But this time, John had really fucked him up good and Dean didn’t think he would be able to go on pretending that everything was normal. He didn’t know how his dad would react if he brought up that he thought a couple ribs might be broken or that his nose may need to be set. Would John be angry? Embarrassed? Maybe even a little regretful? Dean didn’t want to have to deal with that right now. Not with his head throbbing and every breath a stabbing pain of agony. A couple days of recoup sure did sound nice.

Seeming satisfied with Dean’s response, Bobby let them travel the rest of the way home without conversation. The silence that had been so stifling before now seemed almost comfortable.


	5. An Answered Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John POV. A quick phone call between John and Bobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter, but I thought it was necessary for plot development.

“Look who finally decided to answer their fucking phone.” Growled out angrily from the other side of John’s receiver. John winced, feeling the sharp tone of Bobby’s voice bounce around through his skull in aggravation of his hangover. He began “Look, Bobby…” 

“Whatever you have to say for yourself John, I’m not interested. Dean is going to spend the next few days recuperating with me while you go fuck off somewhere. I swear John, if you try to set one foot in my house before then, I will shoot you.” 

John’s pride bristled. He hated being talked down to, especially when it was over one of his sons. He had raised them on his own for their entire lives and they had turned out to be pretty damn good kids, and even better hunters. And while he had messed up a couple times, last night included, he thought he had done a pretty good job. He didn’t need to be chastised over one of the few mistakes that he had made. Instead, he was going to go pick up Dean and they were going to go track down Sam together. While he did feel bad for going overboard last night, Dean’s negligence to watch Sam was what had caused it, so it wasn’t like he had been too out of line. 

However, if that was true, then why did he have this nagging sensation of guilt at the back of his head? Maybe it was because Dean had found it necessary to call Bobby ─ he wouldn’t have done that unless he’d been desperate, especially knowing how much Bobby’s involvement would piss John off. John just knew that he would feel better when he saw Dean. If he just knew what he was dealing with, then they could get it cleaned up, fixed and everyone could move on with their lives. 

“Bobby. I’m coming to get Dean. I’m already on my way to your house.”

“You try to get him John and I swear….I swear I will shoot you. You really outdid yourself this time John, and you scared the absolute shit out of him. You want me out of your business? I was the one that had to come YOUR seedy motel room at 2 in the morning to pick up YOUR son because of something YOUR dumbass did. So now, I’m the one that gets to tell you to go fuck off. I’ve been dealing with the aftermath of your little encounter last night all morning and the last thing Dean needs is to have to deal with you. You’ve done enough.”

“Look, I’m sorry Bobby. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry I lost my temper and I’m sorry that you got dragged into this. But Dean is my son and I’m coming to get him. Sam is probably halfway across the country by now and if we’re going to get to him in time…”

Bobby cut him off. “Would you shut up about Sam you mindless jackass? You knew that Sam was going to leave for college sometime, he’s only been talking about it since he was 10 years old. And if you didn’t have your head stuck so far up your ass you might actually take a second to be proud of him instead of hunting him down like a lost dog.”  
“It’s not safe out there for him Bobby, you know that. He’s a good kid, but he doesn’t have a hunter’s mind on him like Dean. A couple classes and a pretty girl and he’s going to forget all about what a fucked-up world we live in. Yeah, he’s going to be mad at me if I go pick him up. But I’d rather have him pissed off and alive then dead in some college town in California. I just want him to be safe.”

An unpleasant scoff barked through the receiver. “Safe? You want him to be safe John? The same way you kept Dean safe last night? Cause from where I’m standing I think the most dangerous place for him to be is anywhere around you.” John winced. “I mean, Jesus John. I’ve seen full-grown monsters cause less damage then you did. I’m pretty sure you broke a couple of his ribs, he’s been coughing up blood all morning. And I’m don’t doubt he’s going to catch a fever after sitting out in the cold for hours after being half beaten to death. How you even managed to look at yourself in the mirror this morning John beats me.”

John felt a panicked feeling of guilt fly through his body as he heard that he had broken Dean’s ribs…he didn’t remember any of that. Bobby has to be over exaggerating he rationalized. There’s no way he would’ve lost his temper to that extent, even if had been drinking. Every aspect of his life was carefully thought out, from the way he conducted his hunting cases to the way he interacted with his boys. Even a drunk John would’ve surely known better than to take things that far. No. Bobby didn’t know what he was talking about and didn’t have the right to take Dean away from him like this. Their entire relationship Bobby had been undermining his parenting and accusing him of being the bad guy when he himself was too much of a coward to have any kids of his own. The more John thought about it, the angrier he was becoming that Bobby even got mixed up in this at all, it was none of his goddamn business. Dean had better have some good excuse for calling Bobby or he was really going to see him mad. 

“I will be at your house in about 10 minutes. Thank you for your help this morning, but I’m not going to leave without Dean. He’s my son, not yours Bobby.” 

And with that John hung up the phone and returned his focus to the road, his eyes hardened with determination.


	6. An Avoided Altercation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John POV. John drives to Bobby's house to pick up Dean.

The Impala rolled slowly over the gravel driveway as John rounded the corner of the Singer salvage yard to the small two-story house sequestered at the back of the property. Rusted stacks of scrap metal leaned precariously around the faded blue siding of the home, only interspaced by the occasional junk car or power tool laying forgotten on the ground. Bobby's house had always represented a staple of familiarity in John and the boy's lives, a novelty that they got precious little of from their life on the road. The sense of foreboding looming over him as he continued down the driveway not only seemed displaced but somehow…wrong. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be. He wasn't the bad guy here and Bobby knew that. He  _had_  to know that. Bobby had known him since Mary had introduced him when they were dating, and Bobby had continued to be such an integral part of the boy's lives growing up that he almost felt like family. The idea that Bobby felt like he had to protect Dean from him, from the friend he had known for more than 20 years, only exacerbated his annoyance that Bobby was even involved. The sharp feelings of anger he had been experiencing were mixing with a sense of foreboding that was provoking a manic tapping of his hands against the steering wheel as he pulled closer to the house.

As John swung the Impala into his customary parking spot, he heard the rusty squeal of the screen door swing open as he turned to see Bobby stroll quietly out onto the rickety wooden porch, one hand poised on the railing and the other bearing and ancient looking Remington shotgun.  _He can't be serious_ , John thought as the sense of rage tightened in his chest. Taking a calming breath, he climbed carefully out of the driver's seat and raised his hands up in a half-joking, half-serious gesture.

_He was going to have to play this carefully._  Ignoring the anger throbbing through his veins, he threw Bobby his most charismatic smile, the same smile that had won him Mary all those years ago, as he called out a hello. Bobby remained stern and unresponsive, hand still poised on his shotgun. John tried again as he began to move slowly towards the porch. "Bobby, let's be adults about this. This is just a conversation between old friends, there's no need for guns." His voice came out friendly enough, but the tension laying underneath was apparent. "I'm sorry about last night, things got a little out of hand. But there's no reason for us to escalate things." He took another step closer. "I'm just going to go upstairs, check on Dean, and see if I can get him patched up and out of your hair. We have a really long drive ahead of us, so he will have plenty of time to rest up on the way."

"John, stop." John stopped walking towards the porch. Bobby began to lower his other hand to his shotgun as he continued, voice straining underneath a forced calm. "As much as I've been wanting to shoot you all morning, violence between you and me and just going to make it harder on Dean. Somehow, you got that kid so brainwashed he still cares what you think, and he'll be mighty upset if he wakes up to me telling him how I had to chase you off the property with a shotgun. Which I will do before I let you go up there and lay one more hand on him. So, do us all a favor, save the drama, crawl back into your car and piss off. I don't give a fuck what you do but I will not see you back on this property until I tell you that it is okay to do so."

_Keep calm John._  His flaring temper was screaming at him to drop the ruse of friendliness, but instinct told him that diplomacy was going to be the best approach to dealing with Bobby.  _Just keep calm._

"How about we compromise? Let's go upstairs and ask Dean what he wants to do. You know how much he cares about Sam. I'm sure he's itching to hop in the car and go rescue his little brother, probably more than I am. If you know Dean, and I mean really know him, then you would know that would hate to be stuck here while I'm out on the hunt. He's made for action, and right now that action is getting in the car with me to go find Sam. He needs something to distract himself, the last of which is you buzzing around him like a doting housewife."

Bobby paused a minute, hand still cocked on the shotgun as the silence persisted. "I know he'd rather go with you John. I'm sure he'd prefer to leave with you today and never bring this up again. That's what he's been doing his entire life isn't it?" Bobby let the question hang in the air a second, leaving room for an answer but not really expecting one. John remained silent, a hint of discomfort twitching at the edge of his mouth as Bobby continued. "But I'm stepping in on this one and saying no anyways. He needs to know that this kind of thing isn't okay and it's not something he can just keep skating over. You could have done some permanent damage John, and honestly, you might have if I wasn't there to clean up your mess. Maybe a week apart will give you a little perspective. And it doesn't matter anyways, he's in no condition to travel with those broken ribs." His voice arched up sarcastically. "I don't think he'd be able to sit in Impala for two minutes without throwing up blood all over the precious upholstery."

At the mention of broken ribs, John flushed with embarrassment and panic as he once more tried to recall last night.  _God, he really didn't remember anything_. It just didn't sound like him. Dean's fine, there was no way John would've actually hurt him.

"Then just let me see him Bobby." This was ridiculous. He shouldn't have to plead to see his own son. "You said it yourself, he cares what I think. Don't you think that I can at least go upstairs and make sure he's okay?" He paused, steeling himself for the magic word that he knew would get him into the house. "Don't you think that I could at least go in there and  _apologize?_ " Ugh… this was degrading.

The sound of a woodpecker and a squirrel rustling around underneath one of the junk cars overwhelmed the silent space as Bobby considered the question. John shuffled uncomfortably, feeling awkwardly bare under the stern gaze of Bobby. Finally, Bobby replied, voice gruff but also somehow sad. "You can go apologize John, but I'm warning you… if you take one step towards him or say a single word to him about trying to go hunt after Sam, I will use this." He motioned towards the Remington. "You go upstairs, you apologize and then get in your Impala and leave. Fair?"

"Fair." His desperation to get to Dean outweighed his hatred of being talked down to at the moment. Bobby backed up a couple feet as John climbed up the creaky wooden stairs to the rickety porch and swung open the front door. Somehow cluttered but yet organized, the familiarity of Bobby's house wasn't giving John any comfort as he ascended the weathered stairs towards the second-floor guest room that he guessed Bobby would've put Dean into. He could feel the cold sense of judgment and anger pressing on his back from the hardened gaze of Bobby watching him from the foot of the stairs.  _Well, at least he was getting a little bit of privacy._  The guest room door was cracked slightly open, the chipping white paint revealing some sort of dark wood underneath. The constant throb of anger that he had been feeling since learning of Bobby's involvement was being overshadowed by a sinking sense of dread falling into a pit in his stomach. His self-assurance faltered as he remembered the pathetic man he had seen hunched over the sink this morning, eyes bloodshot and shirt torn and speckled with blood. God let him be okay. Steeling himself, he lightly rapped his knuckles on the door.

"Dean?"

At no answer, John pushed the door open lightly and felt his heart stop as he looked over his sleeping son. Dean was laying on his side, facing away from the door with a sheet tangled around his legs. On his upturned side, two solid lines of deep purple bruises radiated out angrily into a blotchy mess that took up a large part of his torso. A discernable set of bruises left from handprints dotted his upper arm. From what John could see, the side of Dean's face was swollen and bruised with a jagged cut trailing angrily down the side of his face above his left eye. Even in sleep, his breathing was shallow and strained, his side moving up and down in an uneven rhythm. John's felt unable to move, forced to look at the remnants of his handiwork as the blood rushed to his head in a roar. He didn't think…he didn't know…that it was going to be this bad.  _He needed to get out of here._  Every part of his body was telling him that he needed to leave.

He felt his feet take him down the stairs as his face shined hot with embarrassment. He murmured something to Bobby about being back in a week, not quite making eye contact, as the screen door banged loudly behind him. The engine roared and kicked up gravel as the car fled from the property in a haze of exhaust and regret.


	7. A Necessary Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's POV. I haven't included him in this story as of yet but thought it would be interesting to explore his response to the backlash of his actions. Please comment with suggestions and feedback!

"Rest stop in 5 minutes."

The tired voice of the Greyhound bus driver crackled through the speaker, waking Sam from the light doze he had recently fallen into. For a second, a sense of panic flew through his chest as he struggled to remember where he was.  _Oh right._  Everything came back as he shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He was in the mid-morning of the second day of his Greyhound journey, probably somewhere at the edge of Utah or the beginning of Nevada if the desert landscape was any indication. He found that his sense of navigation in the United States was usually spot on considering how many times he had been dragged around the country in the Impala. Of course, the empty seat next to him that he had been using to stow his book bag had been filled this morning with an unpleasantly large man stuffed into a Hawaiian t-shirt. He had spent the entirety of the last six hours tucked tightly against the window in the attempt to avoid making contact with the parts of the man spilling over the side into his seat. But finally, a rest stop. He hoped that choosing a seat on a Greyhound wasn't like having an assigned seat and he could move somewhere more comfortable for the next leg of the journey, maybe next to the pretty brunette that had thrown him a smile on her way down the aisle yesterday.

He let out an audible sigh of relief as the man next to him got up and he was able to fully extend his shoulders for the first time in what seemed like ages.  _People his size were not meant to be crammed into a bus._  Hopping down the stairs, a light breeze tugged at his hair and played with the ends of his t-shirt, disrupting the sweltering heat of the arid landscape. A small, square rest stop rose up before him advertising several restaurants and coffee shops inside. Free from the constraint of the bus, he headed towards a weathered-looking bench underneath a clove of scraggly trees where he plopped down his bookbag and began rummaging through for his wallet—he had been too distracted to eat yesterday and now he was starving.

Searching through his bag, he caught sight of the phone resting quietly underneath his favorite grey sweatshirt. In his decision to leave yesterday morning, he had made the decision to power off his phone to preemptively avoid the onslaught of calls that were sure to be coming his way. A hint of guilt began clutching at his chest as he thought of how worried Dean must have been when he had chosen to disappear without a trace yesterday. He had thought of leaving Dean a note or a voicemail, or just something to let him know what he was doing, but had decided against it knowing that his father would see it and have just one more opportunity to track him down. And to be honest, he'd been so angry and resolved when he was leaving that it hadn't really occurred to him to let Dean know he was okay. After all, Dean had to know how capable he was even though he insisted on treating him like a little kid sometimes. He was 6'4 with a 4.0 GPA and hunting skillset that most people his age couldn't even fathom— he was going to be okay. But still, the thought of Dean's worry and the heat that he had probably gotten when John came back…. it was making him feel queasy.

John had always acted differently towards Dean than he did to Sam— sometimes it kept him up worrying. While Sam and his father undoubtedly argued the most in their family, there was something else, something cold and dark that crept into John's eyes in his more infrequent fights with Dean. While Sam's arguments with John were passionate, always rife with anger and yelling, Sam had never really experienced the undercurrent of cold, bridled fury that occurred in his brother's interactions with their dad. He felt that he had briefly encountered it the other day in the Impala looking into his father's eyes after being told to leave and never come back. Looking into those dark eyes flashing at him through the mirror of the Impala, there was no hint of passion, no hint of anger, just a cold and dark void of uncaring manipulation that had sent a pang of fear racing down Sam's spine. Right then and there, he had decided that he needed to leave. If he didn't leave, tonight, he was afraid that he was never going to find the resolve to do it. He didn't want this life...he hadn't asked for this life. And even knowing that it would probably crush Dean, he had to do it. He had to be selfish for himself if nobody else was going to be.

Feeling his resolve begin to outweigh the sense of guilt writhing in his chest, he fished the phone out from the bottom of his bag and pressed the power button. It had been more than a day since he had left and he was willing to bet that everything had calmed down enough that it would be safe for him to send a message to Dean. Waiting for the phone to power up, he climbed onto the bench, put his elbows up onto the table's surface as he let his head lull backward to stare up at the clear blue sky. He was doing the right thing, wasn't he? How had this world gotten so messed up that the only way for him to do the right thing in life was by disappointing his family? If he had been a part of any other family, they would've been proud of him. A light buzzing reverberated through the wood letting him know that his phone was powered up. The phone continued to vibrate vehemently as it displayed a large amount of missed calls and voicemails that it had been stocking up.

_Fourteen missed calls from Dean… that sounds about right._ They were all dated in the earlier hours of yesterday, so at least he had eventually figured out where Sam had gone and given up trying to call him. There were also three missed calls from Bobby Singer. Why on earth was Bobby calling him?  _Oh yeah._  His dad had disappeared off to Bobby's after their big fight, so maybe John had asked Bobby to call him and see where he was when he found out that he was missing. Scrolling through his messages there wasn't a single call from his dad to be found, so he could only assume he was getting Bobby to do his dirty work for him.  _Coward._  On top of the calls, there was a litany of voicemails flashing unread on his home screen. Pressing play, he lifted the phone to his ear.

_You have 5 unheard messages._

_The first unheard message is from (Dean Winchester) at 10:07 am March 3_ _rd_ _(yesterday):_

_"_ _Hey man, I didn't see you around this morning, figured you probably went on a run or to the library or wherever it is that nerdy little brothers go to early in the morning (laugh). Anyway, I'm going to go see if I can find us some diner food for breakfast, so give me a call back and I'll pick you up something while I'm out – I know you're probably hungry since you didn't eat last night. But yeah, call me back."_

[Sam couldn't help but feel a smile creep up to his lips at the reassuring tone of his brother's voice. He saved the message and continued on.]

_The next unheard message is from (Dean Winchester) at 11:13 am March 3_ _rd_ _:_

_"_ _Sammy! Still haven't heard back from you man. Look, I picked you up some food and I'm in the room waiting for you, I'll just throw it in the fridge if you think you are going to be awhile. Look…. I know you were kind of in a funk last night, and I don't blame you. Dad can be a real dick sometimes, we both know that. But you know he didn't mean what he said. Go ahead and take some time to cool off, I get it, but just give me a call back so I know that you're okay and can let dad know where you're at in case he comes back early. Also, if you don't come back in the next few hours, there's no way I'm not eating the food I picked up for you."_

_The next unheard message is from (Dean Winchester) at 12:04 pm March 3_ _rd_ _:_

[Sam jerked back from the receiver in surprise as Dean's voice came roaring through the phone.]

" _So I just had an interesting talk with the lady at the front desk. Goddamnit Sam! Couldn't you have told me? Given me a message or woken me up or anything? Couldn't have let me know that you're okay so I didn't have to go traipsing around town looking for you like a jackass? And dad. Oh my god, he's going to be so fucking mad. Do you ever take time to think about anyone other than yourself? Or are you perfectly fine just leaving us, leaving me, to go pal around with your new Stanford buddies. It's not like what we do here is important at all…we're just saving people's lives. You know what? Have fun. Maybe without you around to butt heads with dad I'll finally get some fucking peace and quiet in my life."_

[Sam didn't realize that he was holding his breath until he felt himself exhale a giant gulp of air painfully. His cheeks were burning and he blinked back trying to clear the water that was threatening to tear up at the corner of his eyes.]

_The next unheard message is from (Dean Winchester) at 3:41 pm March 3_ _rd_ _:_

_"_ _Sam? Look, I've had some time to think and I'm sorry I freaked out on you earlier. I wish you'd have let me know what you're doing, but if this is the way that it's gotta be, then I get it. I know you're not happy here and I hope you can find it out there somewhere. Just uh, give me a call sometime okay? Maybe just not in the next couple weeks so I can give dad some time to calm down. I'll try to get him to understand the best I can. Not to be all sappy, but I love you man. Watch out for yourself."_

[A tempest of emotions roiled in Sam's chest as he clicked forward to the next message]

_The next unheard message is from (Bobby Singer) at 7:02 am March 4_ _th_ _:_

[Bobby's voice sounded out in a low growl, sounding both angry and tired.]

_"_ _Sam. So you made the break for it huh? Good for you. You're too smart of a kid to get stuck doing this shit job for the rest of your life anyway. I only wish you'd get your brother to do the same thing. So…I don't know what you've heard from Dean, he hasn't been exactly been the most talkative, but I just wanted to let you know that he's with me and everything is going to be alright. Just don't blame yourself, your dad can be a real unreasonable piece of shit sometimes. Dean's going to stay with me for a while until he gets cleaned up, but why don't you give him a call sometime and let him know how you're doing? I think he'd like that. Anyway, I gotta go…but just, wanted to let you know that we're all proud of you kid. And don't worry about Dean, I'm going to take care of it. Just go and don't look back, that's what I wish I would've done."_

Dean is staying with Bobby? What the hell? Sam felt his stomach collapse in on itself as he pulled the phone down from his ear and shakingly began to dial his brother's number.


	8. Home Again, Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sams POV. Sam is finally able to get ahold of someone and figure out what is going on.

…shakingly began to dial his brother's number. Which went straight to voicemail.

Sam slowly lowered the phone, his hands trembling violently as he clasped them tightly against his legs. A pit of apprehension began gnawing at his stomach, making his insides feel like acid.  _Staying with Bobby._  Why the hell was Dean staying with Bobby? His brain was reeling trying to piece together what had happened from the small amount of information that Bobby had left him in the message.

He hadn't heard from John since he left two days ago, which was decidedly unlike his father. He and John could play the silent treatment for ages when they were together, allowing the anger to rest in the air, swelling like a balloon until Dean finally broke them down enough to start talking to one another again. But when Sam stormed off…. that was a different story. John's controlling side couldn't cope with not knowing where his sons were, and when Sam had tested him on it in the past, his father was manic—almost unrecognizable from the level-headed hunter that he so often portrayed.

Even when he was a teenager and would try to go spend the night at a friend's house, John would call him obsessively, spitting message after message into his voicemail threatening him to come back immediately or to not come back at all. He never meant it though— if Sam refused to come back, he would always just show up and fetch him like a lost puppy. That was why Sam had refused to leave any clue as to his whereabouts when he had left the other day. So many of Sam's attempts at normalcy had been ruined by his father showing up unexpectedly on his friend's doorsteps in the middle of the night, his dark features pressed together into fake worry as he would explain a non-existent family crisis and drag Sam away into the darkness. Those were the times when Sam felt the least in control of his life. Even when John left them stranded at some backwater motel with only a fake credit card to buy groceries for weeks on end, he felt more in control of his life than the moment John strolled through the door. After years upon years of this, he was suffocating. He and John couldn't even stand in the same room anymore without one of them screaming at one another. It's a wonder Dean could stand it. It was a wonder Dean could stand a lot of things…

Sam shook his head quickly, feeling his breath hitch in his throat as his mind began to wander to things that he didn't want to think about. He looked down at his hands clenching desperately at the meat of his thighs, the tendons in his hands painfully apparent underneath the blanched skin. Forcing them to relax, he took a breath and felt dull throb echo up the upsides of both his legs where his fingers were digging in.  _Don't think about it._

But he couldn't not think about it. Since the first night that he had figured out that John treated his older brother differently than he did him, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. He still remembered figuring it out—the muffled shouts of pain out in the hallway and the cursing in the other room; he had thought that his father had accidentally left the television on. On getting up to go turn it off, Sam was surprised by the door opening quietly—he could've sworn Dean was in bed—to let in his 10-year old older brother, his face turned downward. Curious, Sam flicked on the light to see Dean's small frame supporting a collection of tennis-ball sized bruises lying dotting sporadically over his torso. Dean's stance of dejection quickly turned into surprise as he caught Sam's eye and desperately scrambled to turn the lights back off. When Dean normally would've railed into him about staying up past his bedtime, he had only been able to muster a "Go to bed, Sam." as his voice leaked out choked up with tears and embarrassment. Sam had spent that night listening to Dean moaning and crying in his sleep—not the last time that he would have to do so.

Ever since that night, Sam knew. And he knew Dean  _hated_ that he knew. Sam had tried to talk to him about so many times over the years, but Dean absolutely refused to treat it as anything but hunting injuries. And when he was that young, he couldn't confront John or talk to Bobby about it—he was too scared. The brothers had generally functioned over the unspoken understanding that talking about it wasn't going to help anything _._  Deep down, Sam knew that both of them harbored the fear that addressing the issue would've somehow made things worse. John really only made it a point to hurt Dean in what he considered to be instances of discipline, so at least they could prepare. Through an unsaid agreement, Sam sit would anxiously in the room that his father had sent him to when needing to "talk" with Dean about something and wait until Dean almost collapsed through the doorway before helping him to the bathroom to clean up. It was never anything too serious, and his injuries were always concentrated in the same areas, so Sam would set to methodically cleaning up his injuries as Dean sat on the floor, leaning his head against the toilet as he closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath.

And then the next morning, they wouldn't talk about it. None of them would talk about it, as if it never happened. It was a sick and twisted cycle that they'd been stuck in for ages—another reason Sam felt like he needed to escape. He'd begged,  _begged,_  Dean to leave with him for years, but there had never been anywhere for them to go. They had no other family, no car and no money to leave with. And now that they were old enough and Sam had gotten into college, he had asked Dean to go with him, and Dean had turned him down. He'd rambled on, making excuses about hunting and loyalty, but Sam was convinced that he was too afraid to leave the only life he'd ever known—to start over fresh 19 years into life. But the other night, Sam knew he had to leave. With or without Dean, he had to leave. No matter the consequences.

All this thinking was making him feel sick to his stomach.

Sam couldn't shake the idea, the deep guttural pit of guilt currently gnawing at his stomach, that whatever was happening with Dean and Bobby had been in some way caused by him leaving. In fact, he was almost sure of it. But he had known the risks when he left and had chosen to do it anyway. He wasn't going to let John win just by the threat of violence to Dean. He'd tried, unsuccessfully, to get Dean to go with him, and he knew that he had to try and escape before he was stuck in this life forever. He was proud of his decision—running to Stanford had moved him that much closer to forging a life of his own. But that didn't mean that he still couldn't check up on Dean. Picking up the phone, he slowly dialed Bobby's number, the apprehension beginning to pulse throughout his body again and tingle through his fingertips.

"Sam?"

He felt a feeling of relief wash through him as Bobby's gruff voice came through the phone.

"Bobby!" His voice came out a little louder than he had expected. He felt himself pause a second as he struggled to form a question out of all the thoughts jumbled through his brain. "Is…Dean there?"

He heard only the slight buzz of electricity from the phone as Bobby paused. Finally, he asked "Have you talked to Dean yet, Sam? Or your dad?"

"No, I just turned my phone on right now. Got your message saying that Dean was staying with you. Where is my dad? Why is Dean with you?"

He could almost hear Bobby's frown through the phone as he let out a big sigh.  _God, he sounded tired._ "Look Sam, I don't want you to worry, but I don't want to lie to you either—your dad did a real fucking number on him this time." Sam felt his stomach fall to his feet. Bobby continued. "I picked him up early this morning passed out on the sidewalk in front of the motel door after he called me, Sam. He  _called me_. I've pulled tooth and nail to get that boy to talk to me about John his entire life, and last night he just willingly called me to come pick him up at 5 in the morning. I really think your dad scared him shitless."

Sam felt anger scream through his body as he pictured his older brother laying helpless outside of that disgusting motel. His jaw clenched and voice flat, he asked "What did he do Bobby?"

"Broke a couple of his ribs for sure. The kids been coughing up blood all morning. I thought he might've had a concussion, he's been slipping in and out of consciousness all morning, but I think it may just be from the heavy bruising around his face. Sam, I don't know what got into your dad, but I've never seen Dean this bad before. It's like he lost all control…'' Another sigh.

Sam could feel his heartbeat thudding through his head uncontrollably. "Where is he?"

"John? He came by an hour ago or so. Fucking coward took one look at your brother and hightailed it out here so fast he nearly ran out of the house. I've strongly suggested with my old pal Remington here that he'll be staying off my property until I tell him he can come back. Gotta warn you Sam, when John stopped by, he mentioned that he was about to be on his way to track you down. I'd keep an eye open for yourself and don't stop till you reach California."

But he wasn't going to reach California. Not yet anyway.

"Don't worry Bobby, John isn't going to need to track me down. In fact, if he stops by, tell him I'm going to be coming right to him." He clicked the phone shut, the resolve of his decision throbbing through his veins like a drum beat.

He felt angry, hot tears slide down his face as the feelings of rage and guilt knotted up in his chest overtook him for a second.  _He was never going to be able to leave, was he?_  He was going to spend the entirety of his life trying to run away only to be dragged back when everything went to shit. But he couldn't leave Dean like this—not after it had been his fault, again. He wasn't a child anymore and he was no longer too scared to stand up for his brother. No, not scared… he was angry. He was furious, every part of his body aflame with hatred for the selfish son-of-a-bitch that had been ruining their lives since the day they were born. If John thought that he was going to get away with this, if he thought that he was ever going to get away with this ever again in his entire life, he had another thing coming.

Letting his rage propel his actions before he could change his mind, he hurriedly went to the nearest ticket stand, bought a return ticket and hopped on the closest bus heading in the opposite way of California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I had been originally planned on stopping the story with Bobby purposefully not telling Sam about Dean in order to make sure that he goes to Stanford and gets on with his life- in character I think that's most closely aligned with what he would do. But, on the other hand, you guys seem to like the story so much and our friend Sam has so many anger issues, this is the approach I decided to take instead. 
> 
> Hope you guys like it! Feedback, please!
> 
> (Also, a shameless plug- I recently did a Harry Potter fic, over Tom Riddle to be exact, if you guys enjoy my writing and want to check it out.)


	9. A Day Finally Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby POV. After everything has had some time to calm down, Bobby has a moment to himself to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! Life has been extremely hectic. As always, comments are very much appreciated.

The soapy, warm water lit up with the last light of the setting sun slanting through the small window as Bobby hand-washed the dishes, letting his mind relax for the first time in what seemed like ages. He had always liked washing the dishes, even as a kid— something about the heat of the warm water against his hands and the rhythmic motion of cleaning let his body relax and allowed his mind to wander. The orange-hued light pouring through the window illuminated the multitude of tiny dust flecks floating aimlessly through the air, spinning lazily around each other in lackadaisical circles as they waited for gravity to inevitably drag them back down to a settling place.  

Looking through the dust, his eyes fixated on the ghostly reflection of himself staring back blankly from the cobwebbed interior of the semi-translucent window. _God, he looked terrible._ The last twelve hours had passed in such an uproar that he hadn’t had more than a moment to himself to calm down. He found his left hand raising to trail across the dark circles weighing down the bottom of his eyelids and the permanent frown lines etched into the sides of his mouth and between his eyebrows. He didn’t just look tired, he looked….old. Worn. Used up. _When had he started looking like this?_ It hadn’t always been this way. He remembered seeing a much younger, carefree version of that foreign face reflected back in the very same mirror as he had snuck up behind Karen doing dishes, snatched her up around from the waist and spun her around the kitchen. They had both laughed themselves to tears as they sat in disheveled heaps on the floor, trying to regain their balance enough to stand. Her faced flushed with the heat of laughter and blonde hair hanging askew around the sides of her face, he had sat there thinking that he had to be the luckiest man in the world. They had been so young….so hopeful, and so painfully naïve when they first moved into this house.

But that was all over now and he was alone.

 A sigh was pulled from his chest as he averted his eyes from his grizzled, exhausted reflection and plunged his hands back into the water. Rolling his shoulders, he felt the faint beginnings of soreness beginning to creep into the muscles of his back—Dean wasn’t exactly the kid he used to be and Bobby had been carrying him around all day. Dean had been trying to hide it that morning at the motel, he had already been mortified enough by the crowd that they had attracted with all Bobby’s yelling, but he was having major difficulty standing, much less walking. Later, in the safety of his kitchen, Bobby’s suspicions aroused from the hitched, raspy breathing rattling out of Dean on the car ride home were confirmed when he had Dean take off his blood-soaked t-shirt to see two distinct lines of bruising—dark as the midnight sky—stretching nefariously across his torso. Prodding ever so carefully at the bruises, Bobby could feel the indentation of the cracked ribs underneath his fingers as he’d scrambled to find a bag of frozen vegetables for Dean to hold against them as he tried to stop the incessant flow of blood pouring steadily from his nose and the nasty cut above his left eye. He’d hated the sense of déjà vu that he had gotten as he propped Dean up on the stool in his kitchen, ordered him to take off his shirt and went to grab them both a beer from the fridge before he got to work methodically cleaning up Dean’s injuries. 

But it had never been quite like this before. As Bobby had continued to work over Dean for the greater part of the morning—stitching up his eye, setting his nose and trying to get some of the swelling in his face to go down—he had wondered if he had made the right decision in bringing Dean to his house instead of the hospital. His house didn’t exactly offer the greatest selection of painkillers, but Bobby knew that Dean would’ve hated being poked and prodded at in a hospital bed; John was a moron, but he was right about one thing—Dean hated being doted on, especially when he was hurt. And on a more private note, Bobby had thought that keeping Dean at his place would be his best chance at keeping John out of their hair. In the public setting of a hospital, there wasn’t really much Bobby could do in keeping John away from his son—at least not without causing a scene and embarrassing Dean even more. The best way to ensure Dean was safe was going to be underneath his supervision in his own house. And, to be honest, Bobby wasn’t sure that if John came to get him, Dean wouldn’t willingly leave with him.

 John had always had this weird effect on Dean that Bobby had never quite understood; it wasn’t exactly fear and it wasn’t exactly loyalty, but for some reason Dean had never seemed angry at the way John treated him, never upset at the bruises and cuts from hits he’d never deserved. For someone that had gone through something similar with his father, Bobby just didn’t get it. He’d _hated_ his father. In all those tense dinners and long nights of hearing his mother cry quietly in the other room, he’d never once doubted that his father, the root of all his childhood pain, was nothing more than worthless, violent alcoholic. But Dean’s opinion of John had never reflected anything like that— at least not from what Bobby could tell. Never angry, Dean still loved his father wholeheartedly, constantly looking for his approval and maybe just a little bit of his attention (if he could spare it from arguing with Sam for more than 10 seconds). And honestly, that was the part that worried Bobby the most. Anger, he could work with; or at least he could rest easier at night knowing that Dean had the good sense to leave when John started to get out too out of hand. But no, Dean would never complain or fight back, he’d just quietly take it, always trusting his father to have his best interests at heart and never take things too far. It was fucking heartbreaking.

His attention was snatched away from his thoughts as he registered the creak of a footstep coming from the guest bedroom upstairs—old houses like this made it very difficult to sneak around. Drying his hands on the rough flannel of his shirt he walked into the dark hallway, seeing Dean’s dark figure outlined by the faint ring of light pouring from the fluorescent bulb of the opened guest room door. Although he was leaning heavily on the wooden banister, at least he was up and able to support himself. Bobby fought the urge to immediately snap at him to get back into bed; he’d always tried to avoid being too militant with the boys knowing how much they got that with John. He didn’t want to be just another person in Dean’s life that pushed him around.

“How ya feeling, kid?” His voice echoed up through the darkened stairwell.

“Fucking fantastic.” A pause. “How long have I been out?”

“About twelve hours. I’m honestly surprised you're awake with how many sleeping pills I gave you. I don’t exactly sleep very well anymore and one of those usually puts me on my ass for the whole night—I gave you three.” 

“Oh, is that why I feel like shit?” He clipped out a guttural sound that sounded vaguely like a chuckle. Bobby knew he was trying to lighten the mood, but couldn’t bring himself to smile, even for Dean’s sake. The silence hanging between them again, Dean cleared his throat nervously before continuing. “So, uh… have you heard anything from my dad?” He shifted his weight to lean more heavily on the railing.

_So he didn’t know then._ When John had bolted out of there like a bat out of hell earlier, Bobby had assumed that he’d been too much of a coward to apologize after he had seen what he had done. Fixing Dean up in the kitchen earlier, Bobby had been able to wrangle out of him that John hadn’t exactly been the clearest of mind last night. John had already been pretty lit when he’d left last Bobby’s house and he’d had his suspicions John may have stopped for a few more when he didn’t answer the door to Bobby’s yelling that morning. It also explained the seeming lack of control surrounding Dean’s injuries—John usually avoided the face. Seeing John roll up in his car earlier, eyes squinted in pain from the sunlight and yesterday’s clothes wrinkled from sleep, it’d been pretty obvious that John had had a pretty rough night. Bobby had gotten immense satisfaction seeing that cowardly son of a bitch fly out of there, embarrassment painted all over his face when he’d realized how much damage he'd done.

Bobby cleared his throat, mulling over the best way to approach this. “Yeah, he stopped by.” _No use lying, not fully at least._

Dean’s posture immediately tensed up. When Bobby didn’t continue, he barked out. “And?”

“And, we had a discussion about how he’s going to leave you here with me for a week or so. No violence, just like I promised. He’s gonna take some time, do a little reevaluating and come back when he gets his priorities straight. And you and I are going to have a chat.”

“Oh.” Dean breathed out so quietly that Bobby barely heard it, his head dipping a little further down to the floor. “So, he uh, he didn’t want to see me?”

Bobby made a split decision. “Course he did.” Dean looked backed up. “I just didn’t let him.” Bobby knew how much Dean cared about what John thought. He didn’t know how Dean would react if he knew how angry and embarrassed his father had been—best to just it alone so Dean could focus on recovering and not worrying about what John was doing.

“Was he mad?” Standing at the top of the stairs, his face hidden from the light behind him, Bobby couldn’t help to see Dean as the kid he once was. No matter how old he got, that kid was still inside him, desperately trying to seek out his father’s approval.

“Well, he wasn’t exactly happy, but we uh, we worked out a deal. He’s gonna come back in a week and then all of us can talk together about how things are going to be.” _That’s enough for now._ Dean’s posture was leaning more and more heavily on the railing as he silently began to struggle to hold himself up; Bobby could see his arms beginning to shake with the exertion. Better to give him an out.

“I’ll tell you what…” Bobby continued. “I will bring you a beer if you go lay back down. An old man like me needs an excuse to climb the stairs every once in a while, and I wouldn’t mind one myself.”

Dean paused a second, then “Yeah, alright. I think I’m beginning to feel those sleeping pills you gave me, anyway. Three, Bobby? Really? You trying to put me out for days?” His voice rose up slightly in a joking tone at the end.

Bobby reciprocated, “If it keeps you out of my hair.” Bobby heard the faint snort of a chuckle as he turned his back to the dark hallway, headed to the fridge and pulled out two beers, the pillar of his and Dean’s oldest tradition.


	10. A Kitchen Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean POV. Bobby and Dean have a conversation while Bobby fixes him up in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the patience, I know it's been forever since I put out a chapter. I had a lot of time to kill yesterday at the airport so this one's on the longer side at least. As always, comments and kudos appreciated!

“Dean.”

“Mmmph.” Dean’s eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the room and settling on the old cast iron radiator ebbing heat through the room in lazy waves. He could feel the dull throb of soreness spread throughout his left side and neck from the awkward position he had finally managed to fall asleep in. Even with Bobby’s painkillers and sleeping pills, it was the only position he found he could lay in to alleviate the stabbing pain shooting up from his ribs every time he took a deep breath.    

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Bobby.”

“Oh… you’re awake. I just wanted to see how you’re feeling.”

Dean attempted to flip himself around in the bed, getting his torso rotated around partially before a stabbing pain forced him to stop, his exhale turning into a sharp bark of pain. In a second, Bobby was at his side helping him sit up.

“It’s fine.” Dean’s voice cut sharply through the air. “Bobby…it’s fine. I’m fine.” He struggled up to a sitting position. “Thanks for the help, but I promise I’m capable of sitting up by myself.” Dean caught a hurt look flashing across Bobby’s face before it carefully disappeared underneath an expression of indifference.

Bobby withdrew a step and cleared his throat, turning back towards the door. “Okay, I’m going to go grab you some water then.” He left, not turning back around to look at Dean before disappearing down the stairs.

_Damnit._ Dean sighed, resting his head in his hands as a feeling of guilt blossomed warmly in his chest, mixing with the dull ache throbbing outwards from the ribs underneath his bandage. His face felt foreign underneath his hands as he traced his thumb alongside the swollen, hot skin where Bobby had given him stitches. His mind felt dry—his thoughts mottled and slow as if impeded by gravel as he struggled to focus on anything other than the dull, never-ending ache pulsing throughout his entire body. _Damnit Dean._ There had been no reason for him to yell at Bobby for just trying to help him. _When was he going to stop hurting the people he loved?_ First, he had royally fucked things up with his dad. He’d lost Sam and then undermined his trust by calling Bobby – it was going to take ages for him to get things back to normal with his father after this whole mess was figured out. He’d screamed at Sam, mad about something they all knew he was going to do, that he _should_ go do. And now, here he was snapping at Bobby who’d never wanted to do anything but help him. A sharp throb of pain pulsed behind the back of his eyelids in a red haze.

“Here you go, kid.”

Dean looked up to see Bobby standing beside him, arm extended with a glass of water.

He gulped it down quickly, thankful for the relief that it brought to the dryness in his throat; he hadn’t even realized that he was thirsty. Bobby stood by his side, quietly eyeing him until he announced, “I think it’s time to change your bandages.” Dean looked down, seeing the faintly red ichor that had crusted on the edge of his bandages. _God, he had to look like such a mess._ Suddenly, he could feel all the heat flowing steadily from the radiator and laying stagnantly underneath his scratchy blankets accumulating, making him his heart beat furiously and his face flush red. _He needed to get out of this bed._ “Okay.” He threw the blankets off and let the cool rush in, providing instant relief. “Downstairs?”

Several minutes later, he and Bobby sat in quiet of the kitchen, the sunlight streaming in to illuminate faded, chipping tile. Bobby had thankfully helped him down the stairs, having the good graces to not mention it as he had given him a shoulder for support as a lead. But nothing could have been as embarrassing at what had happened yesterday—honestly, Dean was surprised he wasn’t immune to embarrassment entirely by now. All those times he’d sat here helpless in this kitchen, those times he’d depended on his little brother to stay up late and help him clean up after a fight, those times he’d been cornered by teachers, looks of worry plastered on their faces as they asked him is anything was wrong at home; you’d think he’d be accustomed to embarrassment by now. All because he constantly fucked up. Because he couldn’t defend himself— wouldn’t defend himself—because he was so worried about making things worse… _fucking pathetic_. He could use a beer _._ He made his way to the fridge, grabbing a Bud Light before easing himself down onto the stool Bobby had set out for him. He purposefully avoiding looking at the lumpy reflection of his swollen face leering at him through the kitchen window. The kitchen hummed with the sound of the sink as Bobby washed a pair of scissors and some tweezers, the heat steaming from his hands and rising like tendrils in the soft light streaming through the window. They sat in silence as he cleaned methodically, continuing the slightly strained tension that they had yet to address since their conversation in the car the night before. Dean took another deep gulp from his beer as he began to feel his thoughts loosen and the throb in his side becoming slightly less distinct. _He always hated this part._ Sitting on this stool in this kitchen, shirtless and vulnerable in the open lighting, he didn’t feel like himself but rather an object to be scrutinized—a blatant portrayal of how bad things could get in his family and how much he had fucked up in front of his father.  

“Hold still.” Bobby came over from the sink, scissors in hand, and snatched Dean’s beer out of his hand before taking a long pull and setting it down on the counter. “Thanks, needed that.” he mumbled as he set to work cutting off the old set of bandages, the hot metal of the scissors pressing against Dean’s skin. He carefully removed the bandages, layer by layer, as the mixed scents of gauze and dried blood began to waft through the kitchen. Dean saw Bobby’s eyes darken and his mouth twitch as if he wanted to say something, as he removed the last of the bandages before leaving the room to grab some new supplies.

Sitting alone in the kitchen, Dean chanced a look down at his side and felt his insides curl up as he caught a glimpse of the mottled assortment of sickly black and blue coloring threatening to engulf his left side. Shakingly, he pushed himself up from the chair, both hands grasping the sink as he truly examined himself in the reflection of the kitchen window for the first time since his fight with his father. Tired, bleary eyes struggled to stare back at him from swelling pressing downwards from a jagged cut above his eyebrow, stitched together somewhat unevenly with some sort of black thread. His bottom lip was split open in two spots, swollen and jutting out in almost comical fashion. Small, distinct bruises dotted his throat and sides of his arms from where he had been thrown into the wall and followed to the ground. He pressed lightly at the center of the dark bruising covering his ribs and felt the contents of his stomach threaten to come back up as the skin underneath his fingertips gave like rotten fruit. Dizzy, he returned to his stool and reached for his drink again.

“You okay Dean?” Bobby had returned from the other room, his face drawn into a worried expression. “You’re looking a little pale.”

“Yeah, I’m fine Bobby.” Dean rested his hand on his leg and pasted on what he was hoping looked like a convincing smile. “So what’s my prognosis doc? Are they broken?”

Bobby again forfeited Dean’s attempt at light-heartedness as his brow furthered a little deeper and he stooped down and began poking around Dean’s ribs a little. “Just two I think. You’re lucky he managed to hit the two that he did—any higher and they would’ve been in danger of puncturing through your lungs.” He started to wrap a new sheet of gauze around Dean’s midsection. “So, how’d it happen?” Bobby’s eyes remained carefully focused on changing Dean’s bandages. “It must have been one hell of a punch to break your ribs like that. Or was this from a boot?”

Dean, caught off guard, felt his face flush red. He and Bobby usually practiced the time-honored tradition of pretending it was from someone else, or at least not delving into the specifics; Bobby had learned a long time ago that talking about it made him really uncomfortable. But it’s not they could pretend it was from anywhere else this time—Bobby had picked him up passed out in front of their motel room for Christ’s sakes, John too drunk to even answer the door. “Uh…” Dean swallowed and his throat felt dry. “Neither. I think it might have been his weight. I hit the ground pretty hard, but I thought I felt something crack after he got on top of me…” Dean’s voice fell away as he diverted his eyes to the reflection staring back at him in the kitchen window again. He didn’t continue as he let the silence envelop them once more.

“My dad broke my arm once.” Bobby’s voice disrupted the silence as he continued working on his ribs. “I think I was 11…maybe 12 at the time? He’d disappeared on a bender for about a week and so I ended up stealing the neighbor’s car to run to the store for groceries. I wasn’t old enough to get a job yet and he was the only one who brought any money home, so my mom and I were shit out of luck when he used to disappear with our only car like that. You can only steal so much food from the school cafeteria before people start to notice, you know? Hold this tight.” He gestured to the end of the gauze, which was now tightly wrapped around Dean’s midsection. He turned toward the counter and grabbed some safety pins. “Anyway, I ended getting caught by the cops and thrown in the station until someone could come to pick me up, which—as luck would have it—was my father who had just returned from his bender to hear that his son was in jail.” Bobby let out a mirthless, guttural chuckle, shaking his head slightly. He bent down, starting to secure the bandage with the pins. “Let’s just say he wasn’t happy to hear his son was a felon; by the time that night was over, I looked about how you do right now kid.”

Bobby’s eyes skimmed across Dean’s face, analyzing the bruising and swelling. Grabbing his chin lightly, Bobby turned Dean’s head slightly to the left. He turned to the counter, rummaging around in a first aid kit for a couple of seconds before returning with a small bottle of antiseptic. “This is going to hurt.” An intense, burning sensation screamed across Dean’s forehead as Bobby applied an ample amount of antiseptic to his stitches with a wash rag. “As soon as my arm healed up, I went out and got a job as a farmhand; no more depending on my father for grocery money.” Bobby lapsed into a concentrated silence as he continued to clean up Dean’s other cuts and bruises. Dean shifted uncomfortably. Bobby didn’t really talk about his life before hunting very often; a dark shadow enveloped his face anytime it was brought up. From the few, clipped stories that Bobby had shared—mostly when he was cleaning up Dean—his father had been a real bastard. And while it didn’t make Dean necessarily more comfortable talking about his failings with his own father, it did lessen his embarrassment somewhat.

“Fuck, Bobby!” He jolted backwards as an intense pain erupted from his side where Bobby had just pushed his finger into. “They’re broken alright? I promise you, they’re broken and maybe we should just stop touching them.” Bobby looked up at him, eyebrows raised in exasperation. “I’m just figuring out where the break is you big baby.” Dean felt a faint sense of relief hearing Bobby talk like himself again. “It’s better that we figure it out now instead of later; then we’ll know how long you’re going to need to heal up.” As Bobby's fingers prodded carefully along the broken area, Dean reached for his drink again, feeling the necessity for alcohol returning. After draining the rest of his can, he focused his eyes strictly on a faded section of the ceiling and pinched his leg to provide a distraction from the pain in his ribs. After what seemed like an eternity, Bobby announced “Looks like they’re both clean breaks. You’re not going to be running marathons anytime soon, but I’d say you should be up and around pretty well in about two weeks.” Bobby gestured towards Dean’s neck. “How’s the bruising feeling? I can’t really do much about that.”

 Dean’s lifted his hand to his neck, self-conscious of the finger-sized bruises spanning across his windpipe and arms. He drummed on his ring finger on his throat subconsciously. “They’re okay…he doesn’t usually go for the neck or the face…”

“I know Dean.”

“And, uh, Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad that you understand, but your thing with your dad isn’t really like my thing.” Bobby stared at him. “My dad would never hurt me just to hurt me; he can be a real dick sometimes, but he’s not like that—it’s more of a discipline thing. I mean, you know him.” Dean could hear his voice coming out with a hint of desperation, his words starting to ramble together. His hand moved to start rubbing the back of his neck—something he did when he was nervous. “He’s a good guy. Just a little…intense. And he’d never hurt Sam, he just expects more out of me because I’m the oldest and he depends on me. He’s just… he’s just got a lot on his plate.”

 Dean felt his shoulders start to slump. _Why was he defending him?_ The man had snapped his ribs like spaghetti and almost given him a concussion not even two nights ago. He literally could not help himself from rushing to his father’s defense whenever someone made the slightest accusation. _Why did he do that?_ Sam would never do that; he’d never let John treat him the way the way he did Dean. Sam didn’t feel the need to constantly follow John around like a lost dog, desperately seeking approval and lapping any sort of attention that happened to be thrown his way. Sam wasn’t so… _pathetic._

Dean lowered his head to look at the ground, the throbbing pain beginning to pulse painfully behind his eyes again. Bobby continued to sit there quietly, looking at him with something close to sadness; Dean could feel heat flushing throughout his body as he sat there under scrutiny. _Damnit, he hated having to talk about this._ “It’s not something you need to worry about.” Another wave of pain throbbed through his skull. “It’s just a family issue.” _Fuck this headache…_  Much to his embarrassment, he could feel his eyes begin to water up as his conflicting feelings about his father mixed with the pain pulsing through his head. He looked up at Bobby, hoping that could get through this without making a complete and utter fool of himself. “I’m just…” He felt his voice break. _Too late._ “…sorry.” He let his fall down again, trying to get his eyes to stop watering by rubbing with them with the palms of his hands. _He had to look so pathetic._ He maintained his gaze downwards, trying to gain control of his breathing when he felt a steady, warm hand rest on his shoulder as Bobby knelt down beside him. “It’s okay Dean.” he heard Bobby say quietly. Bobby wrapped his arm fully around Dean’s shoulder, almost in a hug. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay…”

They sat like this for a few minutes until Dean managed to get himself under control. He looked up at Bobby, face red partially from embarrassment and partially from tearing up. He fought the immediate urge to apologize for being such a mess and instead choked out, “Thanks for picking me up Bobby.” And for once, Bobby broke out in what seemed to be a real smile. “Anytime, kid.”

 Bobby cleared his throat and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, that’s enough of that. Why don’t we get you back upstairs? Who knows, tomorrow – if you’re not a pain in the ass—I may even let you come downstairs and watch tv for a bit, if you think you’re up for it that is.”

Dean smiled, leaned back and opened the fridge, gathering four Bud Lights into the crook of his left arm. “For the road.” With that he extended his arm, letting Bobby wrap it around his shoulders as he helped Dean from the chair and up the stairs to the warmth of the guest room.  


	11. Avoidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John POV. I wanted to give a quick snapshot of John perspective after leaving Bobby's and seeing Dean. This seemed like the most canon John response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No worries, I'll get back to Dean and Bobby soon:)

John sat, breathing a sigh of relief as the words of the music started to meld together into a cloudy, warm haze as he downed his fifth glass of scotch. This was the second night that this dusty road bar had had his patronage; with no hunt to focus on, what else was he supposed to do? Since Bobby’s thing had turned out to be a bust and this tiny town didn’t have a library, he was kind of limited with what he could be doing biding time for a week. He glanced around the bar, attempting to catch the eye of the bartender currently waiting tables so he could motion for another drink. Instead, he caught the smile of the woman who had been eyeing him from across the bar for the last half-hour— _tempting...but not tonight._ The thought of trying to make small talk right now made his head hurt; he already had enough shit to deal with without throwing her into the mix as well. He closed his eyes, tracing his fingers around the rim of the empty drink as he struggled to focus on thinking on anything other than the one thing he didn’t want to think about, the one thing that his mind kept returning to, picking at over and over again like a kid picking at a scab.  

_Dean._

The single word punched its way into the forefront of his consciousness, making his stomach clench.

_Goddamn it John._

He felt his fingers press painfully into the sides of his temples. He hadn’t felt this guilty since… ever. Well…maybe Flagstaff. He’d taken it further than he’d intended to that time as well, but in his defense, that one had been mostly Dean’s fault. It honestly baffled John how Dean could be such a good soldier and so irresponsible all at the same time. He’d barely been gone a day—a single fucking  _day_ —and Dean had lost Sam because he was too busy taking some girl home from volleyball practice to make sure his little brother was on the bus home. God, he had laid into him. It had been so easy to hurt him that night—such a practiced, mindless action—that it had scared John. He remembered a time when Dean would’ve been scared, would’ve at least flinched when John pulled back to hit him, but that all seemed to have been drained away the last couple years. Studying Dean sleeping restlessly the next morning, the morning light highlighting a collection of especially nasty bruises spanning the width of his entire body, John promised himself that he was going to be more careful. He’d even left Dean an apology note tucked underneath a case of beer and a bottle of aspirin as he’d left the next morning to go case for Sam. He’d found Sam holed up in a vacant apartment downtown after the first couple days, but he’d stretched out his “search” for two weeks; he figured that time would be good for Sam to get some of that damn independence streak out of his system and besides, Dean needed time to heal up. John hated the way that Sam looked at him after he’d had to discipline his older brother—it made him feel like a fucking criminal.   

_Where was that bartender_? John wrapped his knuckles impatiently on the bar top, earning him a dirty look from the guy hunched over his drink two stools down. John glared back and the man looked away uncomfortably.  _Coward._

It’s not like John wanted things to be this way—it’s not like he wanted to hit Dean. The way that Sam and Bobby reacted, you’d think that he was a sociopath. You think he got enjoyment out of disciplining his son? Of course not. It’s not something he would approve of in normal circumstances, but then again, they weren’t normal. Hadn’t been since Mary died. He was doing the same thing for Dean that a drill instructor would do for one of his soldiers; Dean needed to be sharp. If John was going to trust him to watch out for himself and Sam while he left on trips, he needed absolute obedience out of Dean, and you can’t encourage obedience unless there is consequence attached to failure.

John rested his head on his hands for a minute, enjoying the feeling of lightness rolling around his skull. The knot of guilt that had been sitting in his stomach began to loosen and dissipate warmly throughout his body. His attention was brought back to the sound of a new glass being slid to him from the bartender returning to behind the rail.  _Good man._  He took a big gulp from his new drink.  

His eyes focused on the way the light was reflecting off the ice in his drink as he struggled to return to what he had just been thinking about.

_Oh, right._

So why was he feeling so shitty? Even if Bobby didn’t understand how everything that he did was justified, John knew. Hell, Dean knew; John would only hurt him for a purpose. The problem was, seeing Dean laying there in Bobby’s guest room, he hadn’t looked like John’s soldier—he’d looked pathetic….helpless. Staring at his oldest, wracked with bruises and struggling to breathe, John had felt a rush of anger flash through his body at whatever, whoever had crippled his son to this point. Which in this case, was himself.  _How could he have done that?_  He just wished, above anything, that he could at least remember last night. Even though he’d not exactly been the best father in Flagstaff, he’d been aware of his actions and he knew how to proceed the next morning. Now? Bobby was involved and going to make everything….complicated. Everything was going to blow out of proportion and he was going to have to discuss a private matter between him and his son with someone who had no part in their business.  _Bobby was going to make him feel like a failure._

A wave of tiredness rushed over John like a wave as he sighed, threw back the last of his drink and asked for the check. He didn’t exactly feel better, but at least his mind was fuzzy enough that he couldn’t overanalyze what was making him upset. In fact, he was struggling to keep track of what was making him upset all—everything was starting to swim sort of pleasantly.  _Time to go._

The cold March air let his breath out in amusing little puffs as he crunched along the gravel parking lot to the Impala, the chrome along the wheels reflecting radiantly in the warm light shining outward from the bar. He took a second to lean against the side of the driver’s side door, stuffing his hands into his old, worn jacket and looking up into the night sky. He sat there for a moment, enjoying the vacuous nothingness of the night sky as it matched the emptiness buzzing happily in his mind. He could barely remember what had been making him upset—every time the reason began to surface, his mind pulled away, leaving him staring back out at into the blackness of the night.

_It was freezing out here._ John looked vacantly down at his hands as he stretched them outwards then inwards, realizing how cold they had become. He ducked into the Impala and started the engine, feeling the reassuring sound of the starter roar through the car. Rubbing his hands together he waited for the car to warm up as Lynyrd Skynyrd played softly through the dash.  _When had he gotten so tired?_  He adjusted the seat and leaned his chair back a little bit as he allowed himself to close his eyes for a second.  _Just until the car warmed up._  Eyes closed and his mind hazy, he felt himself melting into the chair, melting into the welcoming arms of sleep as he relaxed into nonexistence.

_If only…if only…he had his boys around right now._  He hoped to God they were safe somewhere.

And with that John fell into a deep, much-needed sleep, the car cabin warm and smelling vaguely of polished leather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for all the comments guys- they really make my day.


	12. Sorry...but not sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby POV. Dean finds out that Bobby called Sam to tell him what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one week? This is record pace for me. Hope you guys like it! Also, happy holidays to everyone. Thanks to all the regular readers who have been keeping up with my story-- you guys honestly give me a lot of motivation to write when I'm not feeling it.

“You’re kidding.”

Dean and Bobby sat in Bobby’s living room, Dean laying carefully positioned on the couch underneath a plaid, wooly blanket, faded from overuse, his face turned towards Bobby in a mixture of anger and disbelief. The exclamation hung in the air, waiting to be answered as it quietly disappeared into the old furniture and mountains of dusty books packed into the small living room. Sighing, Bobby took a seat across from Dean, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. _He really hoped he’d done the right thing here._

“Nope. I called him the night after I picked you up.” 

Dean looked away, hands grasping upwards in shock, as he worked through what Bobby had just told him. Bobby ran a hand through his beard, letting his mind wander for a minute as he looked out the window at the stacks of cars glinting in the sunlight in his salvage yard.

“Look. I know it’s not something that you would have wanted, but he has the right to know.”

Dean whipped his head back around to face Bobby. “The right.” He spit, glaring accusingly at Bobby. “And where do you get off telling me who has the “right” to do anything in  _my_ family.” Dean turned away for a second, shaking his head back and forth before returning his gaze back to Bobby. He pointed an accusatory finger in his direction. “ _You’re_ the one who had no right to tell Sam.”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t want him calling you if he ever looked anywhere _near_  as bad as you did. You’d throw a fucking fit if he didn’t call you right away. Why doesn’t he deserve to know?”

“Because!” Dean barked, his eyes drilling intensely into Bobby’s. “Just because Bobby. Doesn’t matter why—I’m the oldest, and what I say goes. You had no business dragging Sam—my  _little_  brother— into all this shit. This whole thing should just be between me and my dad…” His eyes softened as his voice retreated to a quieter tone. “…you don’t think, you don’t think that it was embarrassing enough for me to call you? You don’t think that I feel enough like a charity case having to sit here calling for you every time I need help getting up the fucking stairs?” Dean looked towards the floor, his voice hardening again. “The one thing that I can do—that I’ve always been able to do right—is to protect Sam. And that includes protecting him from this.” He met Bobby’s eyes. “You had no right to tell him.”

The intensity furrowed throughout his brow and eyes… at that moment Bobby couldn’t help but be reminded how much Dean looked like his father. Leveling with Dean’s eyes, Bobby replied, trying to keep his voice even. “I don’t think you’re giving Sam enough credit. He’s not just your kid brother anymore Dean—he’s a full-grown adult. Hell, I bet he’s even taller than you by now. You need to stop trying to deal with everything all on your own, you need to stop trying to deal with…” He gestured towards Dean’s bandages. “…this shit on your own. I bet, if you gave him a chance, Sam would be more understanding than you think he would.”

Dean let out something between a scoff and a laugh, his head falling backward on the arm of the couch behind him so he was facing up at the ceiling.  “Greeeeat.” He said sarcastically. “That’s just what I need, isn’t it? One more person in my life helping me out, trying to make me feel just a little less pathetic. I’m sure that’s going to fix everything. Why is it, that everyone feels the need to be in my business? Doesn’t anyone have anything better to do in their own lives than sit here picking apart mine?”

“No, because we’re trying to help you, you idjit.” Bobby’s frustration was apparent in his voice. “And if you had the damn sense to take care of yourself, then we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation right now.” Bobby saw the hurt flash across Dean’s face before Dean returned looking at the ceiling and then closed his eyes. They both sat there, the sound of Bobby’s breathing swelling in the belabored silence.  _Shit._

Bobby softened his tone, shifting so he was closer to Dean. He reached across and put a hand on his arm. “You know that’s not how I meant it Dean. I know you can take care of yourself—you’ve been taking care of yourself and raising your little brother pretty much your whole life. It’s just…it’s just your relationship with your dad, well, you worry me kid. I know you look up to him and I know that you don’t think that he’s doing anything wrong, but Dean… this…” again he gestured towards the fresh bandage that he had reapplied a couple hours earlier “…this is not okay. You can’t let him treat you this way.” Bobby could hear pleading creep into his tone. “I can’t have you thinking that it’s okay for him to treat you this way. You know you deserve better than this right?”

The silence continued as Bobby sat there, leaned in, unsure of whether or not to move his hand off of Dean’s arm as he continued to lay there with his eyes closed, the strained movements in his neck making it look like he was trying to level his breathing.  _He shouldn’t have snapped at him. Why was he so bad in these situations?_ He couldn’t believe that Karen thought that he would actually make a good father. After a few moments, Dean responded, sounding resigned. “I know Bobby—I wish things could be better sometimes.” Opening his eyes, he turned to face Bobby. “But, I’m willing to deal with it if it means that I get to keep my family around, if it means that I get to _have_  a family.” He sighed, turning away again. “I’ve already kind of fucked things up with my dad by calling you, and I guess I’m just worried that you’re going to make this way harder than it needs to be. You think this is easy for me? Because it’s not. And in a perfect world, we’d all be sitting happily in some boring house in the suburbs with a dog and a white picket fence, but that’s not my world and it’s never going to be. I’m never going to have a normal relationship with my dad, but considering everything he’s gone through, I think he’s done a pretty good job.” He gave a sad little half-smile. “And the less Sam knows, the better. Any hint of normalcy that he can keep, I’m not going to take away from him. I know you think it’s for the best, but I’ve been trying my whole life to avoid this situation that I’m in, right now and…I just really wish you hadn’t called him.”  

Bobby’s heart felt like it was being tugged downwards towards his stomach.  _Goddamn it John._  “Look…Dean. I’m not trying to make things hard for you—that’s the last thing that I want to do. But this thing? With your dad? It’s got to stop. I don’t know any other way to put it. He could have done some serious damage this time if I hadn’t been able to show up when I did—and I’m not always going to be around to help. I don’t think your dad’s necessarily a bad guy, and I think his hearts in the right place, but you don’t deserve any of this shit that he puts on you. He’s just lost Dean—and all you Winchester boys are just so damn stubborn. God knows I’m no expert in family relationships, but I think all you’re all due for a sit-down chat about how things are going to change, and that includes Sam—he’s part of this too. I know he knows; he and I have had conversations over the years.” Bobby’s voice dropped a little quieter. “I’ve tried to hold my tongue as much for so long because I thought it was what’s best, but now I can see that maybe I’ve done more harm than good. I can’t have you running around with your dad when I know that this is going on on a regular basis. I won’t. So, you either need to work things out with your dad, or I’m going to work them out for you. Okay?”

Dean looked at Bobby, surprise vaguely etched across his face at the sincerity in Bobby’s voice. He took a moment, his eyes darted across Bobby’s face, scanning it before he replied. “Okay, Bobby. We’ll do it your way.” He let out a clipped laugh. “I mean, what do I got to lose? Sam’s gone, Dad’s pissed…. at the moment, you’re all I’ve got.”

“Always, kid.” Bobby gave his arm a squeeze before letting go, then moved to touch the brim of his hat, looking towards the floor. “So…about Sam. I’m not sure he’s as gone as you think he his. He, uh…wasn’t too happy when we got off the phone the other day.”

Dean immediately pushed himself up to a seated position, turning towards Bobby as best as he could. “What? Bobby, what did he say?”

“I don’t know Dean! He won’t return any of my damn calls. After I told him about what happened, he got real angry and then said something about coming back to talk with your dad. Then…nothing. He hung up and hasn’t responded to any of my calls since—I think he shut his phone off again.”

Dean’s voice clipped out curtly. “So that’s it. No one knows where he is, and all of this was for nothing since he’s on his way back from  _where he should be going_. How could you let him do that Bobby?” His voice started to rise and he threw his hands up into the air. “And when did my life become a Goddamn soap opera? I swear to God, the next person that comes up to me, telling me that…”

Both Bobby and Dean jerked their heads towards the direction of the door as a loud knock interrupted what he had been about to say. They both sat there in surprised silence for a second before the pounding continued and Bobby slowly rose from the couch to go see who it was.  


	13. A Door Opened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Dean. A description of who stops by and what comes from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all...I'm alive! Apologies for the terribly long wait. Life, as it turns out, isn't always easy. And has not been these past several months. But, I'm back on the writing wagon and will attempt to keep my updates to at least monthly.

Time felt like it was standing still as Dean watched Bobby rise slowly and leave the room, his footsteps fading into faint squeaks of the hard-wood floor. The rage that he had just been feeling now intermixed with a sense of panic that was swelling in his skull. The pounding thundering from the doorway continued to reverberate through the room in an urgent thump, matching the quickened pace of his heart.

_Please don’t be dad._

The clarity at which this thought rang through his mind surprised him. His gut twisted in anxiety as an image of his father, waiting impatiently at the door, pressed its way into his imagination. He worked to twist himself around and set his feet on the floor, simultaneously draping a blanket over his naked shoulders in an attempt to cover up some of the bruising around his torso and neck. He tried to sit as casually as he could without his ribs feeling like they were on fire—whoever it was, they didn’t need to see how pathetic he looked right now.  

He heard the creak of the old front door, then a pause, then footsteps as Bobby stepped outside and shut the door behind him. _Goddamn it._ He could only hear indistinct murmuring behind the hardy wood door, the voices indistinguishable. Curious, he leaned forward and tried to steal a view through a window facing the front door, grimacing as a fiery stabbing sensation ripped through his broken ribs. A small groan escaped his lips as he sank down further into the couch, unable to even move without Bobby’s help. _Fucking useless._ He closed his eyes, focusing his attention on the voices outside—straining to focus on anything other than the incessant, sharp pain stabbing its way through his torso.  

It felt as if a weight was clamping down around his mind as he heard the door swing shut slowly and a pair of heavy footsteps thudding down the hallway, drawing to a stop before entering the room as if hesitating.   

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice absorbed into the warmly-lit clutter of the room.

The footsteps continued and suddenly Bobby was standing in front of him, gazing downwards as if in thought as his hand pulled mindlessly at his beard.  

“Who was that?” _Oh God._ He strained his neck to catch a glimpse at the car sitting in the front drive, trying to see if it was the Impala. “Was that my dad?”

“Nope. No, it wasn’t…” Bobby’s voice trailed off distractedly as he walked over to the table in the corner in the room and started shuffling through some papers, looking for something. “Looks like your daddy got himself into some trouble last night. That was the county sheriff—they picked up your dad last night and got him locked up in holding right now.”

Dean felt dread sweep from his head down to his feet. “What happened? It wasn’t…” He swallowed. “It wasn’t because of what happened the other night, was it?”  

Bobby paused trying to find what he was looking for and turned towards Dean, eyebrows furled together in confusion. “No…nothing like that.” He shook his head, returning to what he was doing.  “Apparently, they picked him up for carrying an unlicensed weapon. From what I could get from the policeman, the idjit had been drinkin’ last night and fell asleep in his car with the engine running. When someone went to go check on him, they saw his Glock laying out next to a pile of bloody clothes—I’m thinkin’ from you boy’s fight the other night.” He pulled out a small notebook from underneath a stack of yellowing newspapers. “Anyway, it was enough for someone to call the cops, and your daddy was too drunk to talk his way out of it like he normally does, so they threw him in holding to dry out. When he couldn’t get a hold of you this morning, he sent the cops over here to get things settled.”

“He tried to call?”

Bobby nodded distractedly.

His father’s voice echoed through his head. _“You will answer the next time I call.”_ A prick of panic bloomed in his chest as his mind jumped back to the first time that he’d been taught this lesson; he’d missed a call on the motel landline from John when he’d been out picking up a soda down the street with Sammy. When his dad had arrived home the next day, he’d jumped out of the car like he was worried, then pulled his sons into a rare hug when he saw everything was fine. Later, he’d pulled Dean into the bathroom when Sam wasn’t looking and asked him why they hadn’t answered when he had called yesterday. When Dean explained, John had bent over to stare at him eye level, paused a second, then slapped him across the side of his face. Hard. _“You will answer the next time I call.”_ Then, without looking back, he calmly hopped in the Impala and disappeared. He came back with a small Verizon bag several hours later and tossed Dean his first cell phone, not meeting Dean’s eyes or looking at the angry, welt swelling up over the side of his son’s cheek.

 And Dean had never missed a call from his father since then.

He swallowed, his mind returning to the present. He’d been downstairs half the morning, and his phone was tucked underneath his pillow; he must have not heard it ringing.

“It’s upstairs.”

“Yeah, well. He could’ve called me.” Bobby's voice was gruff. “Even if he is a son-of-a-bitch, I would’ve gotten him out. Eventually. And now…” Bobby lifted the small notebook into the ray of light streaming in through the window, squinting to distinguish the writing. “…I’m going to save his sorry ass, just like I always do.”

He pulled out a chair, sitting down as he dug a flip-phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. He looked over towards Dean as the faint sound of the phone ringing through to the other line echoed softly through the room. “I helped out a guy on the round here with a thing a while back, and let’s just say he owes me a favor.” A murmur. “…Jared? Yeah, this is Bobby Singer. I’m gonna need to cash in that favor that you promised me…”

Dean leaned back, resting his head on the arm of the couch and letting the conversation fall away as he could feel the tiredness from the sleeping pills nudge at his senses. The knot of anxiety that had settled in his stomach when he thought his father was at the door began to loosen. Several minutes later, Dean was brought back by the sharp sound of Bobby’s chair dragging across the floor. He moved to the side of the couch as Bobby went to sit next to him, feeling slightly childish as he dragged his knees up to his chest to make room.

“Jared’s good to get him released this afternoon, but I have to go down to the station to be there when he gets out.” He paused, and Dean could feel the weight of Bobby’s hand on his leg. Even though they were rough—mechanic’s hands—something about them was very gentle as well. They’d always been able to calm him down. “Do you wanna come with?”

Dean instinctively started to say yes but forced himself to pause as he remembered the anxiety that had popped up earlier when he thought his father was at the door. He wrapped his arms around his knees and let his mind wander as he stared indistinctly at the faded plaid pattern of Bobby’s shirt. He wanted to say yes, he really did. He’d always been there, for every bad day that his father had, for every time that he needed cheering up, for every time that their mother’s death had been too much—Dean had been there. Scrambling to somehow make things better. And he hated the idea of his father being stuck in a jail cell being treated like some criminal. The guy spent his _life_ doing things for other people, he sacrificed his happiness to save people, and he didn’t deserve this.

But, deeper down, Dean really didn’t want to go see his father like this. Or rather, he didn’t want his dad to see _him_ like this—a broken mess. He had a mental picture of himself trying to hobble into the jailhouse, people staring and whispering as they wondered what happened to his face. _Poor kid...I wonder if his dad did that to him._ People feeling sorry for him for having to go pick his dad up from jail. People not knowing that he and his dad, his family, were _heroes._ Not lowlifes. And even worse, Sam was still missing. His dad was probably worried sick, and Dean wouldn’t have anything new to tell him. He’d let Sam go on his watch, called Bobby because he was too weak to handle a couple of slaps and didn’t even answer his father’s phone call this morning. He was going to be livid.

“Are you going to bring him back here?” His voice felt smaller than usual. 

“I don’t have to. I got him let out on the condition that his license was suspended until he got a permit for his firearm, so I need to at least drive him away from the station.” Bobby gave his leg a little squeeze. “Fuck him. We can do whatever _you_ want to do. He should thank his lucky ass that I’m helping him at all.” 

“Do you think…” _God, he felt like such a kid._ “Do you think he’s still pissed at me?”

Bobby sighed. “Honestly, kid? I don’t know. When he came by the other day, he didn’t exactly stick around to chat. But the way he looked when he left, I think it may have once gotten through his thick skull that he’d fucked up.” Bobby waited, seeing if Dean was going to answer, then continued on. “You don’t exactly look like you’re up to going. I don’t mind dropping him off somewhere else if you still need a couple days to heal up. And Dean…” Dean’s eyes lifted to meet Bobby’s gaze. “It’s okay to need some time. Don’t worry about what your dad wants for once. Worry about what you want to do.”

“I’m going to stay here.” Dean felt some relief expand in his chest at his decision. “I don’t really want him to see me like this.”

Bobby moved to stand up. “Okay, kid, no worries. I wouldn’t want to deal with your daddy more than I had too either.” He turned back around to look at Dean. “But, you shouldn’t be embarrassed about what happened Dean. Not in front of me, or Sam, or your dad. He’s the one that should be embarrassed.” He turned to move towards the hallway. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You need anything before I go?”

“No, I’m good.” He hesitated, then strained his neck backward to catch Bobby’s eye. “Can you just tell my dad that I’m fine? And that I’m not angry?”  

Bobby pressed his lips in a sad, little half-smile, patting his shoulder lightly as he walked by the end of the couch towards the door. “Sure thing, kid.”

Then the door swung open again, and he was alone. Alone to ponder if he had made the right decision and how he was going to fix things with his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my regular commenters. I love to hear what you guys think about the story and really do take your suggestions into consideration. If I disappear again for months on end, just shoot me a comment reminding me to update--I'll get around to it.


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